


If Loving You's a Crime

by theother51



Category: Hamilton - Miranda
Genre: (I think this may be the first work with that particular tag), Burr is just here for the paycheck, Jefferson is Classy, M/M, Madison is Nervous, art heist au
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-27
Updated: 2016-05-29
Packaged: 2018-06-04 18:23:54
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 18
Words: 45,861
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6669433
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/theother51/pseuds/theother51
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>I love it when people say "we're partners." Are we dating? Are we friends? Are we committing crimes together?<br/>(The answer is yes to all three.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. "Artist" - Sir William Fettes Douglas

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The red of the book in the artist's lap and the rising gold in the background appeal to James. A little hope in the middle of the dark.

He's not even certain why he's been invited to this party. Thomas Jefferson is a friend of a friend, at most. His apartment is loud and filled with spherical light fixtures and warm colors and purple furniture. And art. There is art all over the walls, but it's difficult to see over the swirling tapestry of people that blankets the floor and the sofas and the chairs and the counters.

James Madison is doing his best to acquaint himself more with the art and less with the people.

Nothing against the people at this party - they almost seem impossibly interesting. Dressed to the nines, eating from little plates of hors d'oeuvres (most of them fancy, the notable exception being the mac and cheese), and discussing politics or literature or their fabulous-sounding jobs. James is clearly the odd one out here, a graduate student a few years younger than Jefferson and many, many years younger than everyone else here.

His host has already made the rounds, given him a hearty handshake and a disarming smile. Right now, Thomas Jefferson is over by the kitchen counter chatting up a pair of twins, brother and sister, who use their mother's fabulous wealth to travel the world and collect artifacts from World War I.

James makes a vague excuse about the bathroom and feeling sick to his stomach. The group of people he's been drifting in and out of (a semi-famous author, an art historian, an exotic pet breeder, and an archaeologist, all of them more charismatic and more affluent than anyone's got a right to be) doesn't seem to care overmuch about where he's going.

He slips off to explore the rest of the house. He wants to see Jefferson's art collection.

James has always been something of an art buff himself, especially paintings. When he was younger, he'd make the trip to the little art museum on the corner every afternoon once school let out, doing his homework in the shadow of Impressionism and Cubism and all the other beautiful -isms that show up on canvas. Even when he was young, he'd try to copy what he saw on the walls on the backs of his multiplication worksheets.

Now, he's gone to school for art history. He spent a good chunk of his savings on traveling to museums all over the world. He nearly fainted at the Louvre, seeing the Mona Lisa for the first time in person.

James Madison's multiplication skills have hardly improved, but he's gotten much better at copying what he sees on the walls.

He never does anything big, just copies some lesser-known painting, makes it as authentic as he can, sells it for what he can get. James always buys food first, then pays his rent, then replenishes his painting materials. He does his own paintings, too, but those don't make money.

He learned a long time ago that you make more when you say something's the original.

The sound of the party still flickers behind him. Luckily, the guests have mostly restricted themselves to the huge, lovely open area that is Thomas Jefferson's living room-slash-dining room-slash-kitchen.

James pauses in the hallway to admire a Cezanne -  _how did this guy even get a Cezanne? Dude must be richer than I thought._

He isn't always this focused on money, but when Thomas Jefferson has invited you to a party, it's hard not to be. The signs of it are everywhere, in the pricey light fixtures and the way the guests are attired and the particular trim around the hallways. James can't say he minds - after all, he doesn't exactly come from nothing, and it's only due to the quintessential American narrative of making it on your own that he's not doing better for himself.

Still, though. This is a rich people party full of rich people older than James. Full of people older than their host, even. For a guy who feels awkward and nervous at normal parties, this is bordering on too much.

He much prefers the artwork.

James wanders the halls of Jefferson's labyrinthine apartment. He stumbles upon a bathroom for real and peeks in to find an Umberto Boccioni - "The City Rises," if he remembers correctly - adorning the wall.

 _Funny,_ James thinks,  _I thought that was hanging in MoMA. Must be a damn good reproduction._

There's a Warhol, a Manet, a Caillebotte, even - somehow - what looks to be an original Picasso. James scrutinizes each piece, letting himself get lost in the sweep of color or the thickness of the brushstrokes or the flourish of an artist's hidden signature. It's similar to the party, in some ways, looking at the riot of artwork on his walls. There's color, there's noise, there's emotion. Still, paintings do not expect you to speak up, and paintings don't get mad when you tell the same joke twice or cough through their story.

"Where did he get these?" James asks aloud, reaching out to press a hand to the canvas and pulling up short.

He thinks he hears something behind him, a snicker, something warm, but when he turns around there's nothing there. 

When he finds a set of doors, closed tight, he deliberates with himself before figuring he's already stretched his morals tonight by snooping through an almost-stranger's apartment. What's one more room?

James emits a low whistle before he can stop himself, though the whistle quickly turns into a coughing fit. He still can't shake this cold he's had for a month. It doesn't matter.  _What's one more room?_

A lot, apparently.

 

Thomas Jefferson firmly believes that good parties revolve around their host. He believes just as firmly that great parties shouldn't even need their host after the first half hour. Luckily, he's in the habit of hosting great parties.

He's spent time with each guest at this party, made them feel appreciated. He doesn't care for many of them, but others are his friends. He doesn't like parties that have a guest of honor (unless it's him, of course), but tonight it could hardly be avoided. When he learned that James Madison was in town - more accurately, when he learned who James Madison was and that he'd been in town for a few years now - he just had to have him over.

But he couldn't just invite him over, right? Not when he realized that the soft-spoken James Madison he'd met a few times back when they both still lived in Virginia was, well,  _James Madison._ No, the logical course was to throw a party.

So here he is, talking without any real substance to a pair of globetrotting twins and scanning the room to pinpoint the exact moment when James exits for the hallway. Thomas grins slyly at the man and the woman before him (he's been flirting with both in equal measure and they seem confused but game for whatever happens).

"Pardon me," he says. "Be back in a few."

"Where's the fire?" asks the woman - was her name Denise? He can't remember now.

"Bathroom, if you must know," Thomas drawls. "Don't miss me too much."

Thomas is glad he invested in an apartment with lots of corners and alcoves. All the better for following a cute boy around the apartment as he inspects your art collection.

 _Man,_ Thomas thinks, hearing the irony in his own internal monologue,  _what has my life come to?_

James Madison almost reaches out and touches the Picasso but stops himself at the last minute. Clearly he's been raised on museums. The principle of "don't touch the art" makes everybody really want to touch the art - especially if you've been hearing it since you were little. Jefferson tries to fight back his laughter and he's only mostly successful. James whirls around, away from Picasso, and Thomas presses himself back against the wall.

He resists the urge to sigh in relief when he remains undetected.

If it were anybody else, he'd just swan up to them and smile them into doing whatever the hell he wants. It's never ceased to work for him - just grin and shake his curls and let himself exude the charm he knows he's got, and people will do just about anything. But he gets the feeling he's got to tread lightly with Madison, give him time to explore. After all, the poor guy froze up like a deer in the headlights when Thomas shook his hand in a friendly hello earlier.

It doesn't help that he's cute, either. Big and sturdy, a little shorter than Jefferson, but bespectacled and, in a way that Thomas can't quite place, delicate and small. Like a sparrow trapped in the body of an eagle.

James Madison, bless his heart, is opening the door. Thomas grins and waits. He's not very good at waiting most days, but tonight he thinks he can make an exception. Tonight, after all, promises to be exceptional.

 

"Holy shit," James breathes, because nothing else can sum up this room. It could be an office of some sort - there's a desk, at the very least, and a big comfy chair in the corner - but that's not its intended purpose. If anything, it's more like an art gallery.

There are floor-to-ceiling paintings, drawings, and collages, positioned in no particular order, frames of different sizes and shapes fitting within inches of each other like Tetris pieces. James makes a slow circuit of the room, in awe of the sheer volume of art contained in this one room. Unaware of his own trajectory, he knocks a thigh against the desk, making the few small sculptures seated atop it rattle. There are sculptures too.

He notices that, behind all the artwork, the walls are purple.  _Of course they are._

James takes another circuit, almost in disbelief of his own eyes. Here are things he has seen in museums. Here are things he has seen online. Here are things he has only dreamt about being this close to in real life. More Cezanne, a Degas, a Kahlo.

He has seen too many of these in museums. They do not look like reproductions. At this point, James is having a hard time caring.

He sits down in the big comfy chair and stares straight ahead, only to be met with the dark gaze of a painting he knows well. He copied it a few months back. James smiles for nobody but himself. He never does well-known artists, and this painting - a self-portrait of Sir William Fettes Douglas - is no exception. "Artist," it's called. It is, on the whole, an ominous painting, but the red of the book in the artist's lap and the rising gold in the background appeal to James on an almost visceral level. A little hope in the middle of the dark.

Standing up from the big comfy chair, he moves to take a closer look at the painting. He wonders when Jefferson got it, since the last he heard it had been added to the collection of a local museum.  _Well, money and good looks can buy you just about anything,_ James muses.

The brushstrokes of this painting are familiar from the days he spent replicating it. He remembers holing up in his apartment with his earbuds in and his canvas and brushes. "Artist" was the first painting he ever tried to pass off as the original, and it still stuns him that it worked. James has one particularly vivid memory of blotting on just a bit too much paint at a time, leaving a smudge at the tip of the man's nose that wasn't there in the real painting.

Remembering, his eyes travel up to the tip of the nose in the painting.

There is a blot of ink there.

All his museumgoing instincts are screaming at him, but James reaches up to the painting anyway, barely brushing his index finger against the paint. It is there. This is his painting.  _But Jefferson didn't buy it. I'd know if he'd bought it._

"One of my favorites," says a smooth voice tinged with an undercurrent of Virginia. James shivers in surprise.

Thomas Jefferson, his illustrious host, is leaning in the doorway with half a smile on his face.

"I gave it the place of honor," Jefferson says. "Not exactly a famous work, but something about the red and the gold really gets me. Imagine my surprise when I discovered that I didn't even manage to steal the original."

James Madison is never speechless. He rarely speaks in broad company, but he always has something he  _could_ say. Not now.

"Are they all-"

"Most of 'em. A few I bought, a few more I bought legally. But most of them are stolen, yeah. Impressive, wouldn't you say?"

"I should go to the police."

"What're you gonna tell 'em? I discovered that this really hot guy I know is an art thief because he stole one of my forged paintings that a museum bought, thinking it was the original?"

James swallows. "Well, I wasn't planning on including the 'really hot guy' part."

Thomas laughs and says, "That's fair. I think it's implied when you're talking about me."

Not for the first time tonight, James Madison is a little confused as to what the fuck is going on in this strange dreamworld apartment of fancy guests and attractive hosts and art - stolen art. But, for the first time tonight, he's excited to find out.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> First chapter? More like 2000 words of me geeking out about artists. I promise the romance and heisting, as well as the other characters, will come in soon enough!
> 
> Let me know your thoughts in the comments, cuz they always make my day!


	2. "The Hat Makes The Man" - Max Ernst

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's full of brights, pink and green and yellow, and stylized in a way that James finds reminiscent of film noirs. The kind he might be about to live in.

"I assume you didn't just invite me to this party to point out that you own a piece of my artwork?" James asks through a cough.

"And why would you assume that?" Thomas asks back, stepping further into the room and leaning a hand on the back of his favorite chair. James Madison finishes coughing and arches an eyebrow at him.

"If that's all you wanted, why tell me you stole it?" In what appears to be something between habitual movement and punctuation to his statement, James taps his temple with one finger. For one sharp-edged moment, he holds Thomas's gaze, tilting his chin up slightly to meet his eyes. Then he glances away, coughs - this time it sounds fake - and rubs a hand over his hair.

It's not that Thomas doesn't think things through. On the contrary, no one steals as much artwork as he has without a little prior planning. But up until now, he hadn't been certain whether or not he should go through with this plan. He's sure now.

"You tell me," he says, baiting James, letting his characteristic lazy-cat smirk onto his face. "What do I want from you?"

"Not to imply you need it, since it seems as though you're doing well all on your own," James starts, his soft voice picking up speed as he understands, "but you want my help."

"Bingo." Thomas can feel his smirk slipping into something a little more genuine. "After all, imagine how much longer it'll take them to catch us when we leave a perfect copy hanging on the wall. And besides, I imagine that head of yours could get us out of any jams I get us into."

James, maybe still riding the wave of understanding, cracks a smile.  _Huh. Self-deprecating humor might be the way to go with him,_ Thomas thinks, not nearly concerned enough about why pleasing James Madison just became so important to him.

"You expect me to sign on, just like that?" It's not sarcastic, coming from James. It's a genuine question.

"Well... yeah. You're not doing too bad for yourself, but you could do better. You care about art. You're a genius painter. I'm doing great for myself and I'm always happy to help a handsome young man in need. Plus it'll be an adventure, won't it?"

"I barely know you."

Thomas shrugs. "Minor detail. They say the best way to get to know somebody is to steal a few great works of art with them."

"I..." James cuts himself off with a chuckle-cough hybrid. "I've never heard them say that."

"Neither have I. We'll make it catch on." Thomas is grinning, and he's not sure when this situation went from him testing out different grins to see what works on James to him grinning because that's what his mouth happens to be doing.

"Why do you do it?" Again, not accusatory, just a genuine question that James seems to want the answer to. 

 _Lucky him,_ Thomas thinks. 'Why do you do it?' is Thomas Jefferson's on button, and not one that gets pressed often. He steps away from his chair, moving toward the painting, the painting called "Artist" painted by the artist in front of him.

Jefferson's not the world's greatest orator. But James just pushed his on button.

"Not that I've informed anybody about my secret double life, because that would be a new kind of stupid, but if I did I'm almost positive they'd assume I do it for the money. Which is ridiculous. I didn't end up with a house full of great art by selling everything I get my hands on. It's... you grew up in museums, right? I can tell. It's all over you. I did too. It's the don't touch the precious works of art mentality. You grow up just itching to  _touch_. Call me entitled, but when I love something I gotta get my hands on it. And besides, sometimes I'll come in here and read or work, and it feels so much better than being in a museum. Surrounded by the things left behind by people I grew up idolizing. But mostly it's the knowing I can touch them. I don't - I never do - but I  _can_."

He's staring into James Madison's deer-in-the-headlights eyes from a much shorter distance than he was a second ago. Thomas blinks. Before he can apologize for getting so close, James opens his mouth and speaks, soft and slow.

"Please don't touch the precious work of art."

Thomas tips his head back and laughs, edging away from James. The artist before him is coughing, but smiling into the crook of his elbow, clearly proud of himself for such a joke. He reaches out and taps the tip of the nose on his painting, his "Artist."

"Something wrong with his nose?" Thomas asks.

"Used too much paint," James admits. "You see, there's a little blot there. Thought for sure I'd get caught for that one."

"Honey, I've been studying this shit for years and I didn't notice anything amiss. The experts at the museum sure didn't, though I can't say I trust their opinions. What messes me up is how you even painted this. Unless you stole it too and just ain't telling me?"

James snorts. "I went and saw him one day, memorized the painting, went home and spent the next week getting it just right. Except for the nose, clearly."

Thomas raises an eyebrow. "Photographic memory?"

"Mm-hm."

He whistles. "Sweet, man. That'll serve us well in our adventures."

"You should get back to the party," James says, not acknowledging Thomas's implicit statement of  _you're joining me._ Smart of him, of course, not to tip his hand just yet. In the back of his head, Thomas knows that this guy could still turn him in to the police. In the front of his head, he knows he won't.

" _We_ should get back to the party," Thomas insists, holding out an elbow for James. "I assure you, you're being missed just as much as I am."

"I hate parties," James mumbles, but he hooks his elbow through Thomas's and lets himself be led from the room.  _Man,_ Thomas thinks, a smile on his face that he didn't consciously put there,  _I don't even care if he says yes at this point. This right here is a victory. Feels like I'm showing up to prom with the football quarterback._

He doesn't say so aloud, but he is still smiling. He doesn't mean to be smiling.

 

James lets Thomas Jefferson - who hosted a party as an excuse to get James in his apartment (he sees that now), who steals art for the very same reason James copies it (he sees that now, too) - lead him back to the main room. The party seems to be going strong even now, but the crowd has thinned out. James feels the arm looped through his depart, but Thomas has blended so effortlessly into the bustle that by the time James looks to him, he's gone.

He sits down on the couch and coughs, annoyed at himself for having a constant cold. Coughs are not stealthy.

The woman flirting with him (he thinks - he's never been sure of these things) laughs politely when he tells a joke he thinks he's told already. This should be the part where he excuses himself, walks out the front door without telling Thomas goodbye, and heads straight to the police. Art belongs to its viewers. Art belongs where it can be shared.

 _But who would know the difference?_ James wonders. It's a rhetorical question.  _No one. I can do much better than "Artist." And, after all, no one is saying what I paint shouldn't be shared, too. No one is saying my copies don't belong to their viewers._

He's working on a copy right now - even in his head, James does not call them forgeries - of a Max Ernst, gouache and pen on board. "The Hat Makes The Man" is weird and surreal, of course. But it's full of brights, pink and green and yellow, and stylized in a way that James finds reminiscent of film noirs. The kind where everything is dangerous and everyone makes it out alive.

The kind he might be about to live in.

The woman who may or may not be flirting with him stands up in a huff and leaves, looking almost sorry for him as she snags an hors d'oeurve and makes the rounds looking for more interesting conversation.

James pauses for a moment and stands up after her, checking the time on his phone as he does so. Almost one a.m.

When he checks it again, it's after one-thirty and he's only just found his host. Jefferson is leaning in a side alcove surrounded by a group of people. He's entertaining them with what looks to be a riotously funny story about his time spent in France.

"And when I get back, you'll never guess whose email was just sitting in my inbox. The president of the MoMA board of directors!"

The group oohs and aahs appropriately, Jefferson clearly basking in the attention. James can't help but think that Thomas is in the wrong profession. Art theft requires secrecy, at least if you're a good thief. There are few people you can tell about your escapades. Then again, Thomas seems to be great at lying about this particular aspect of his life.

 _He should have gone into politics,_ James muses.

While he's busy lingering at the outskirts of the circle, Thomas notices him after only a few moments. "James!" he says, excited, cutting himself off. He leans out through his circle, breaking the line in half, and pulls James in by the wrist. While he's not a fan of all the people in close proximity, he can't say he minds Jefferson himself in close proximity. The hand on his wrist keeps pulling, until he's pressed against a slate-grey buttoned-down chest, complete with purple tie.

"You made up your mind?" Thomas whispers, so quiet that James has to strain to hear.

It occurs to him that he has.

"I'll do it," James murmurs. Thomas gives him one more squeeze, and James's nose, pressed to his shoulder, catches some scent, definitely French and not half bad.

"So who're you then, James?" purrs a woman at Thomas's shoulder, once the hug - which went on longer than was strictly necessary - finally dissipates.

"Yeah, you two any relation?" pipes up a man James almost recognizes. One of the globetrotting twins, maybe?

James looks at Thomas, who looks at James. Neither of them is prepared for this question. While it's Thomas who opens his mouth first, armed, no doubt, with some bluster to charm them all without answering the question, it's James who realizes the right answer.

"We're partners," he cuts in. And Thomas Jefferson smiles at him so dazzlingly that he fakes a coughing fit so he can look away. That's the kind of smile you get trapped in if you look too long.

 

Eliza Schuyler sips at her fancy cocktail. She's not enjoying Thomas Jefferson's apartment, nor is she enjoying the cocktail, but the conversation can't be beat. She says, "I hear there've been some thefts in the area from galleries and museums."

The man she's speaking to winces. "Oh, yeah, I did a piece on those. Might keep running that in my column, actually. It kills me that there are people out there who'd want to steal artwork. Though I can't say I blame them if they're in it for the money - damn lucrative business, at least as far as I've heard, if you don't get caught. Then again, lots of people get caught. My point is, I've heard about the thefts and I'm thinking I'm gonna keep up a running report on them 'til the thieves get caught. I swear if I ever meet the people stealing this shit I'll fight them on the spot."

"You would, wouldn't you?" Eliza asks. From what she can tell from their conversation (which has lasted a good two hours now), he absolutely would.

"Hell yeah," he says, proving her point. "You worried? I mean, you and your sisters've got a show coming soon to that little gallery downtown, right? The one with the crazy high ceilings?"

She laughs. "No, no. I'm not famous enough to warrant a theft. None of us are."

Eliza doesn't notice her sister approaching until there's already a warm arm around her waist and a head leaning against hers. "Not famous enough  _yet_ ," Angelica corrects with a soft smile that belies the glint in her eyes.

Eliza Schuyler and Alexander Hamilton and Angelica Schuyler laugh and clink their glasses full of fancy cocktails and decide it's time they went home.

 

Thomas has never been one to complain about a party stretching long into the wee hours of the morning. He can't wait until this one's over. The crowd started to thin around midnight, but his last guests don't leave until the clock above the sink has flipped its hour hand past four o'clock. 

Though that isn't true if one counts James Madison as a guest, since Thomas passed him earlier this morning and whispered "Stay after" in his ear, and James nodded so hurriedly that he couldn't have missed the memo. But Thomas isn't counting James Madison as a guest anymore. They're partners.

"That was clever of you," Thomas acknowledges, spread out on his sofa, arms and legs thrown anywhere they landed. He feels relaxed and a bit like a rag doll. "Because what does 'partners' mean, anyway? We friends? We committing crimes together? We cowboys? Who knows?"

"Based on the current association with the word? Pretty sure your friends all think we're gay boyfriends."

Thomas shrugs as best he can laying down. "Most of those people aren't my friends. And that actually sounds far more plausible than us being partners in crime, given that I am openly gay but not openly a planner of heists."

James descends into a coughing fit. Thomas can't tell if it's fake or real this time, which isn't a good thing. He can always tell, with people. 

"We ought to get you some medicine, man. How long you had that cough for?"

"Going on a month and a half now."

Thomas blinks. "Whaaaat? You get sick a lot?"

"Uh-huh. Why d'you think I was the kid who holed up in the museum every day? Sports were not on the agenda for me."

"Wouldn't have guessed it to look at you."

"Most wouldn't."

Thomas claps his hands together, a 'let's get down to business' gesture. "So, you working on anything now?" He knows that was a sudden shift in conversation, but James catches Thomas's verbal fastball, no problem.

"Max Ernst. It's almost done."

"Can I see it?"

"It's in my apartment."

Thomas springboards himself off the couch, curls smacking him in the face. "Well, I guess we're going to your apartment, then. And yes, I know it's almost five a.m. Normal people wake up at five a.m., it'll be fine. Besides, what's the point of being partners in crime if we don't get acquainted?"

James gives him a tired smile that's more familiar than it should be. Thomas likes that. "I have a choice?"

"Nope."

"To my apartment, then."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am such a sucker for Alexander being an opinionated reporter. Also the heisting is commencing soon! 
> 
> Let me know your thoughts in the comments!


	3. "Mona Lisa" - Leonardo da Vinci

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Her smirk is undeniable, knowing something that James doesn't know.  
> "You will get here," she whispers.

Hercules Mulligan is used to coming home at odd hours. He works security, wherever and whenever he's needed, mostly for museums and art galleries around the area. It's about as good a job as he can hope for, given that he never got into football. 

He works odd hours, but he likes having a Tazer.

While he's familiar with jamming his key in the lock at all hours of the day, it's highly unusual to see James Madison (his neighbor one floor up, nice guy, quiet and respectable) stumbling in just after five in the morning. Much less James Madison being tugged along on the arm of a handsome stranger.

"Yo, James," Hercules calls as the pair passes him. "You doing alright?"

"Better than ever," James says, punctuated with a soft cough. The man with him (tall, sharply dressed but a little rumpled, puffy afro and dark skin) tugs James closer to him, even as he fixes Hercules with a winning smile.

 _Didn't know James had a boyfriend,_ Hercules thinks.  _Though, then again, they could just be close friends. Didn't know James had any of those, either._

He's still mulling this over as James wishes him a good morning in that soft voice of his. As the two journey down the hallway towards James's apartment, the possible friend or possible boyfriend looks back at him over James's shoulder and winks.

Hercules chuckles.  _Boyfriend, then._

 

"Who was he?" Thomas asks once James throws the bolt on the apartment door.

"My neighbor, Hercules. We're friendly but not friends."

"He thinks we're dating now."

Thomas surveys the apartment. It's more or less what he expected. A few drawings pasted up on the walls (all look to be James Madison originals, quite good, very precise). There are loaded bookshelves in every available space, but they don't contain everything and the tomes make stacks around tables and chairs. The whole thing is small, cozy, and - aside from the mess of books - meticulously neat.

"How do you know?" James asks. He's still walking, toward an open doorway. Thomas follows just a hair closer than a respectable distance.

"Cuz that's what I made it look like. Trust me, if we're gonna be hanging around each other's apartments all the time, you're gonna be happier if all the neighbors think the only thing I'm stealing is-"

"You don't need to finish that sentence," James cuts in. "This is it."

Thomas stops in the doorway, hesitant to enter. He's never had particular faith in anyone, much less Anyone, and this feels like a sacred space. James has wire racks on the wall, the kind you normally use for spices, filled with tubes of paint in every color Thomas can imagine and some he couldn't before now. There's a table in the corner covered with glass and clay jars, each containing a different size or style of brush. In the corner there's a small wooden shelving unit filled with bottles, many of them opaque to protect their mystery contents. There is, inexplicably, an oven, and perhaps half a dozen lamps scattered around. Despite the obvious need for light, the windows are covered with heavy drapes that black out the incoming sunrise entirely.

The room is so still, so silent. Thomas thinks he'd notice a single grain of dust being stirred up, though a look at the immaculate, well, everything makes any dust seem inconceivable. He hesitates in the doorway. He is never unsure.

He is unsure.

"You can come in," James says. His hushed invitation, far from breaking the spell, only heightens the atmosphere of the room.

"I don't wanna fuck with your space," Thomas says, silently annoyed at his own lack of eloquence.

"You're not fucking with my space," he assures him. "Come on. You gotta come see Max Ernst."

Feeling nervous -  _which is ridiculous_ , Thomas thinks,  _because I don't get nervous; I wouldn't have this job if I got nervous_ \- he enters the room. And it is just a room, but he gets the sense that it's akin to his roomful of stolen paintings. This is where James connects to the artwork.

 _First painting we steal together, I'm giving him,_ Thomas decides in that moment.

 

James has spent some of his favorite hours in that room, producing perfect replicas of paintings that catch his eye, paintings that aren't  _too_ famous, paintings he can sell for food and rent and more canvas. Showing it to Thomas Jefferson feels like putting his soul on trial. He shifts his weight from foot to foot and tries to make himself smaller, cursing that he's not built petite.

 _In another life,_ James grumbles in his head,  _I must have been, like, five foot four._

"So would you like the tour?" James asks in a murmur. He doesn't like speaking loudly in here. When he paints, he feels the ghosts of the artists at his shoulders. As far as James can tell, most ghosts aren't into noise.

"Yeah. Yeah."

He explains his paints, his brushes, the oven for drying and cracking the paint to age it, the various solvents, the lights to simulate fading, the curtains to prevent it from happening by accident. His room takes longer to explain than he expected, mostly because when James gets talking about something that he loves, he doesn't stop.  _It's like an 'on' button or something,_ he thinks as he details the differences between two tubes of the exact same cadmium yellow.

Thomas, who seems like the kind of guy to talk more than listen, tilts his head attentively like he's trying to physically catch every word James says. It's somewhere between flattering and nerve-wracking for him, leading towards the flattery. When James realizes too much time has gone by and he's given a cursory explanation of everything (though he could go on for hours more), he sighs and coughs.

"Damn," Thomas says. For a moment, this is all he says. "And I thought I knew a lot about art."

"I'm sure you do."

"Yeah, but not like this," Thomas says, pressing. "This is... damn. I do know how to pick 'em, don't I? So how long before you're finished with Max Ernst?"

"A while," James admits, stepping closer to his paper. "Since it's a collage, and I usually just do paint, I'm going slow to make sure it's all right. Plus it was created in 1920, so there's all the paper-aging to do. It might be weeks before I'm satisfied with it." 

He leans closer, drawing a fond hand over the back of the easel but not touching the copy itself.

"Good."

James snaps his head towards Thomas. "Wait, what? Did you not want to get started on your grand thievery scheme right away?"

"Well, 'The Hat Makes The Man' is in MoMA. Can't have you biting off more than you can chew, now can we? Nah, we'll start with small stuff, work our way up to MoMA. That way, when Max Ernst is ready to replace the real thing, you'll be good to go."

James raises a finger to his temple, taps it once. "Smart," he says. It's becoming clearer to him, every minute they spend together, that Thomas Jefferson can think. It's been obvious all night (morning?) that he can charm, that he can read a person or a room just as fast as a magazine, that he's got enough planning skills - or maybe it's just that charm of his - to get away with burglary several dozen times over.

But he can think, too. And James likes people who can think.

"Where do we start?" he asks.

"Glad you asked," Thomas says with a dazzling grin. "Let's go somewhere else. I still feel like I'm intruding on your sacred place or something."

"You'll get used to it in here," James comments as they exit the room. It's not meant to be anything big, as comments go, but from the way Thomas Jefferson's grin goes from dazzling-on-purpose to dazzling-by-accident, it was something big anyway.

"So, to get down to business," he says once they're both perched on James's couch, watching the early-morning sun stream in through the window. "There's this little gallery downtown doing a show soon. Local artists, but they're starting to pick up interest. Plus I love their style. You would too."

"How do you know?" James asks, raising an eyebrow.

"Just do. We gonna do this, you're gonna have to learn to trust me, James Madison. When I say I know something, I know it. You get me?"

"I get you."

"Great. So here's what I'm thinking..."

 

Thomas Jefferson arrives at his apartment right at 6 in the evening, dressed up just enough, carrying flowers. The neighbors don't even lift an eyebrow (at least, not that Thomas can see, though most of the neighbors are behind closed doors). He knocks twice, straightening his blazer and wondering why he feels like a teenager about to go on his first date. He figures most teenagers on their first dates have known their partners for more than a week.

He and James have hashed and rehashed the plan over breakfast, over the secure email that James set up for them both, over and over. While there are ways to fuck this up, Thomas can't imagine a future where they run into any of those ways.

"Hey," James says when he opens the door. He, too, is looking good. Not quite like himself, but good.

"You figured out how to use makeup!" Thomas crows. "Nice. It looks great. A little weird, though."

"Feels weird," James grumbles. "Those for me?"

"Sure are," Thomas says, thrusting the flowers towards him. "More believable. Plus, y'know, if you ever wanna paint a still-life, I'm your guy."

James chuckles and deposits the flowers somewhere in his apartment before emerging again. "C'mon, let's go attend an art show as inconspicuously as possible."

"Inconspicuous is my middle name, James."

"You don't have a middle name, Thomas."

He grins. "You got me there." Without stopping to think about what he's doing, he leans forward and kisses James on the cheek. No blush is visible on his face, but Thomas catches a shadow blooming around his neck and ears. James looks at the ground and, seemingly unaware of his own actions, touches a finger to his cheek.

"Let's just go," James mutters.

The whole walk to the little gallery, Thomas is thinking  _shit shit shit was that too much for him I hope that was okay I hope he's alright_ without knowing why he's thinking it.

 

James Madison, normally lightning-quick, is still processing the feeling of that kiss on the cheek.

 

Peggy Schuyler is relishing the attention. Granted, it's just like all the other attention she gets - part of it's going to her sisters - but she feels classier tonight. More her own person. She's got on a nice dress and someone kissed her hand and two old women from some museum are gushing about the style of the paintings in the series that Peggy herself did.  _Now this is the life,_ she thinks.

 _You're so right, Peggy,_ she thinks.

"So," Eliza says, sliding up next to her in that pale blue dress she wears to  _everything_ fancy, "how's your basking going?"

"Great, actually. This is fun. Remind me why we don't do this more often?"

"Because this is the first gallery that agreed to show our work?"

"Fair. Hey, d'you think our art's gonna get stolen?"

Angelica pops up out of nowhere on Peggy's other side. Her dress is berry-pink, and Peggy doesn't remember when she bought it. "We talked about this at that party we went to a few days ago."

"You didn't bring me," Peggy points out, a little sourly.

"Oh, right. You said you had cramps and wanted to stay in."

"Yeah," she concedes. "Anyway. You did?"

"Mm-hm," Eliza puts in. "Angel says we're not famous enough to have our art stolen  _yet_."

"You gotta admit, though," Angelica says with a smile and a just-so tilt of her hand. "You couldn't ask for better publicity."

Past her sisters, a few people deep in the crowd, Peggy sees a pair of men arm-in-arm, walking, but angled slightly towards them. The taller one, curly hair pulled back in a tight bun, winks at her.

Peggy lets people take photos of her with her sisters and continues to bask in the attention.

 

"So this won't be bad," Thomas whispers. This barely reassures James, but he makes no protest as Thomas inputs the code for the door lock. "All they've got is some motion sensors, some closed-circuit cameras. It's just some tiny gallery. Good practice for you. You remember what we talked about?"

"Photographic memory," James says with a sigh. "I couldn't forget if I tried. You sure it's the same code everywhere?"

"Like eighty percent sure."

"So no, you're not."

"Hey, hey. The door is unlocked which means alarms won't go off even if the cameras see us. It'll just be easier if the cameras don't see us, is all." James feels his shoulder get a reassuring squeeze. They edge their way into the gallery, easing the door shut behind them. They keep the lights off, trusting the moonlight and the big open windows.

The room with the cameras is easy to find. Same passcode for that door - James puts it in this time. Then there's a room with a few monitors. Another passcode to play around with the cameras - same damn passcode. They shut them off. They debated trying to turn them away or pause the footage or something, but in the end they decided deactivation was easier.

James is not used to wearing gloves. He feels like a professional in them.

"Is this too easy?" James murmurs as he turns off the cameras one at a time, flipping from screen to screen like he's done this his whole life. This part is easy for him. This part he understands.

"Nah. It's meant to be easy. Cameras off?"

"Yep."

"Sweet. Come take your pick. First two paintings are on me."

James creeps, by Thomas's side, into the main gallery. It's spooky with the lights off, but James is undeterred. He thinks he can feel the ghosts of artists long gone in this room after hours, just as he can with his own room.

The paintings aren't even attached to the walls by anything other than hooks. James chooses two favorites, both by the same artist, the middle sister. The series looks incomplete without them, too full of bright, harsh colors with no balance. He chooses these two anyway. James likes balance. He thinks these will look nice on his walls. They make him want to meet that middle sister.

"That it?" Thomas asks.

"These two are my favorites. Plus, it's just practice, right? So why bother taking more than I want?"

"Good call," Thomas whispers, tapping a finger against his temple.  _Wait, don't I do that a lot?_ James wonders.

They leave the cameras off. They gently wrap the paintings (they're small, thank god) in paper and drop them, side-by-side, into Thomas's stylish messenger bag. They re-arm the door locks on their way out. They peel their gloves off. Those go in Thomas's coat pocket. He assures James he'll dispose of them.

By the time they get out, James is feeling somewhere between terrified and giddy. It's the kind of high he's never achieved before.

"It's late," James says.

"Sounds like you're staying at my place tonight," Thomas says with a grin. "We can take the paintings to your apartment tomorrow. Can't wait to see how this story breaks. The Schuyler sisters ought to thank us."

"You couldn't ask for better publicity," James quotes.

"Next stop," Thomas says, "the Mona Lisa!"

James thinks a lot about the Mona Lisa. Maybe it makes him a cliche art lover, but she's always been near the top of his list. He more or less passed out when he saw her in the Louvre. Her smirk is undeniable, knowing something that James doesn't know. He pictures it in his head.

 _You'll get here,_ she whispers.  _That is what I know, that you don't know yet. You'll get here._

A few minutes before James conks out on Thomas Jefferson's really nice couch, he kisses Thomas on the cheek and says, "Thank you."

He's too tired to think about what that means.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I thrive on comments, so let me know what you think!  
> 


	4. "Ville d'Avray" - Jean-Baptiste-Camille Corot

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's a painting that almost seems to hide something. Makes the viewer curious.
> 
> Like James Madison.

He doesn't open his eyes yet. Everything smells like coffee and soap and something he can't quite place. He's cloaked in something heavy and soft, a blanket he doesn't remember snuggling up under. Something's tickling at his forehead, and when he reaches up to rub at it, he comes back with a Post-It note.

James opens his eyes and squints at the screaming yellow paper.

"Morning," he mumbles to himself. "I went out - got gloves to dispose of. Enjoy the drink and news. XOXOXOXOXOXO, Thomas."

James rolls his eyes at the list of hugs and kisses, because that's just presumptuous enough to be  _such_ a Thomas Jefferson thing to do. He turns over, shifting this gigantic fluffy blanket he's under to get both his arms free, and sticks the note to the coffee table beside the couch. Waiting there for him is a mug of coffee and a TV remote. There's another sticky note on it that says "Channel 4." James flips on the TV.

After a few minutes of reporting on some hospital budget cuts, the woman on the news says, "And now we bring you back to our correspondent, Kenneth, for more on the chilling string of recent robberies. Kenneth?"

The camera cuts to a man standing outside a tiny art gallery, police behind him and a trio of women at his side. "Thanks, Maura," he says after a pause. "I'm here at Icarus Art, which last night witnessed a break-in just hours after its opening of the Schuyler collection. Two paintings were stolen, both done by Eliza Schuyler." The girl in the teal sundress waves. Kenneth continues, "Nothing else appears to have been taken or harmed, and police are currently at a loss for leads. The big question everyone's asking is whether this is linked to the past months' wave of crime in the art world. After all, this break-in is lower-profile than we've come to expect from our thief or thieves. Still, police investigations say that this may be related to the high-profile heists we've seen recently, and they're working tirelessly to ensure that no other precious works get stolen. In the meantime, come check out the Schuyler collection at Icarus Art, before anything else is stolen!"

Kenneth shares a chuckle, a little forced, with the sisters surrounding him. "Back to you, Maura," he says.

"Thanks, Ken. And later this morning, we'll bring you an exclusive interview with the Schuyler sisters themselves, as well as another look inside the lights-out hospitals, and a special look at why something called the 'Short Sugar Diet' is sweeping the nation. That's all coming up on Channel 4 News At Nine, right after this."

James flicks the TV off and smiles to nobody but himself.  _You couldn't ask for better publicity._

"Pretty impressive, isn't it?" asks Thomas's voice. James tries not to jump and spill his mug of coffee all over himself. He succeeds only in the not-spilling part.

"Jesus, when did you get here?"

"Thomas will do," he says with a chuckle, sauntering around the couch until he's reached James's field of vision. "You sleep well, man?"

"I did." He sits up, tossing the blanket to the end of the couch. "What's in the bags?"

Thomas has a shopping bag slung over each arm, and he glances down in surprise like he didn't even remember they were there. "Oh, I did a little shopping. Couldn't resist! So these..." He lifts his left arm. "...are groceries for making lunch."

James raises an eyebrow. "You cook?"

"Nah. Or, well, I do cook, but I've got it from multiple sources that I don't cook  _well_. Sally does it all, but today's her day off. So it's up to you! You can show me how to use half the shit I have in my kitchen."

"Why do you assume I know how to cook?"

"Do you not?"

James sighs. "I do, in fact, cook a lot. What's in the other bag?"

"That, my dear Madison, is classified information. Need-to-know basis only, I'm afraid." Thomas flashes him a smile - one of the ones he does on purpose, the ones he uses when he's trying to seduce someone into getting his way. James isn't a big fan of those smiles as compared to the accidental ones.

_This isn't the time to think about that,_ he admonishes himself.

"Thought we were partners," James retorts. "Thought anything you need to know, I need to know."

"Lucky for me, I'm already aware of what's in the bag, so I don't need to know."

James rolls his eyes. "Clever."

"Don't I know it. It's a blessing and a curse, this razor-sharp wit of mine. C'mon, get up, Jemmy. It's a big day today."

"When did we get to the nickname stage of our relationship?" he asks, unfolding his limbs and half-climbing, half-rolling off the couch.

"What, you don't like it?"

James rolls his eyes. Being in the same room as Thomas Jefferson feels like being in a massive crowd. His personality, his ego, even his hair is oversized. But, unlike most crowds, James is getting used to this one. "I never said I didn't like it," he concedes.

"I knew it."

 

Thomas Jefferson has built a good portion of his life on knowing, making assumptions, and being right. He knows things about people just from looking at them or listening to them. He assumes they'll like him enough to let him get away with murder (or, in this case, large-scale art theft). He is right. So when there's something he doesn't know (or isn't right about), he tends to feel an insatiable curiosity begin to eat him up until he learns, figures it out, is  _right_ again.

No matter how many mistakes he makes (not many), he never plans on making the same one twice.

This is why he's staring intently over James Madison's shoulder as he stirs what he insists will be, at best, an okay risotto. This is why he's asking upwards of a dozen questions.

"Thomas, could you chop the mushrooms, please?" James asks, sounding exasperated and overworked.

"Sure, of course."

"You need to pop the stems off first, and then put them so the tops are facing up and slice them." At this point, James explains without prompting. "Yeah, just like that. Also, I've been meaning to ask. You can't cook a risotto but you knew all the ingredients?"

"Googled a recipe," Thomas says with a shrug. "It sounded like something I'd like, so I bought all the ingredients."

"Mushrooms done?"

"Hey, don't rush me, man. This is a delicate operation." To punctuate his statement, Thomas twists the stem off of a mushroom until it releases with a soft 'pop.' He grins, delighted by how satisfying that was. He pops another stem.

"Speaking of delicate operations," James says with half a smile, still stirring the risotto, "when's our next mission?"

"Mission," Thomas hums, still popping stems. "I like it. Very spy-flick. And it's happening whenever you want, man. Remember, this whole thing is your training montage, so whenever you wanna go, go."

"Soon," James says. "Before all the places around here have a chance to up their security in response to last night."

Thomas pops a stem off of a mushroom and watches James Madison cook. He's wearing the same dark grey button-down and black jeans he wore yesterday, gripping his wooden spoon like it's some sort of weapon (a knife? a pistol? a pen?), and watching the rice slowly absorb the liquid in the pot. He doesn't seem to expect a response from Thomas to what he just said, like he trusts that his idea will go over well, or if it doesn't, that Thomas will retort. James looks focused. Despite the size he clearly has, he looks small. Kinda cute.

_Shit,_ Thomas thinks.  _I am way too gay for this._

"Sounds good to me," he says, too loudly. "Mushrooms are done."

"Good. Toss 'em in."

"So I was thinking the Morgan Library," Thomas says as he plops his handful of delicate mushroom slices into the risotto. "They've got that  _Trees_ exhibition going on right now, and I hear there's-"

"A Camille Corot," James finishes. "Wait, sorry. I cut you off." He coughs into his elbow.

"Gotta get you some cold meds, my man. And keep talking."

"Well, I like Camille Corot, is all," James mutters. Thomas realizes he feels self-conscious, probably isn't used to hearing the words 'keep talking' because he says so little. Still, his body language is wavering between open and closed. Thomas grins and waits. He's rewarded when James says, "He's had far-reaching influence. Monet loved his landscapes, Degas loved his figures, Picasso's classicals are all Corot. Wasn't really into loud colors, so you can't call him an Impressionist in the regular sense. And - maybe this is the reason I like him - there are  _so many_ Corot forgeries out there. He encouraged his students to copy his work, and it spiraled."

"Corot painted three thousand canvases, ten thousand of which have been sold in America," Jefferson quotes. René Huyghe. He feels something akin to pride at being able to add to this conversation.

James snorts. "Yeah, exactly. But the one I've always loved of his is 'Ville d'Avray.' Funny enough, I've never tried to copy it."

Thomas knows that one. He pictures it in his head. "Ville d'Avray" is full of soft blues and greens, a placid mirror river, and a cornflower sky takes up more than half the canvas. It's a painting that almost seems to hide something, a darker color, on the other side of its sky. Calm exterior. Makes the viewer curious.

_Like James Madison,_ Thomas thinks, and then,  _Jeez, I am way, way too gay for this._

"Seems like you'd like it," Thomas says. "Anyway, yeah, Morgan Library has the oil-on-paper collection and I figured you'd like to steal a Corot."

"You figured correctly," James says, shutting off the burner and giving the risotto one final whirl. "Better make sure it isn't forged, though."

This, Thomas has come to know, is the James Madison brand of humor. Which is lucky, because Thomas finds the James Madison brand of humor to be flat-out hilarious. He doesn't bother muffling his chuckles as James rummages through his fridge for cheese.

Over lunch (which, in Thomas's opinion, is way better than just an okay risotto), they do some planning for the Morgan Library heist. A lot of times the conversation goes off track, mostly because Thomas can't quit flirting to save his life and James seems to be more amused than anything. They make jokes about being modern Robin Hoods, stealing from J.P. Morgan himself to give to...

"Well, not the poor," James points out. "You are poor in no universe."

"Hey, hey, I'm just a normal guy," Thomas retorts, flipping his hair out of his face. "A man of the people. Fuck the establishment."

"You live in a giant apartment in New York City and you steal paintings - not even for a living. Just because you can."

Thomas tips his head. "You've got me there."

After lunch is done and they've shoved their dishes in the dishwasher, James says, "I should go. Gotta get back home. Work on Max Ernst. After all, if we're ever gonna break into MoMA, he's gotta be ready."

"Aww, but Jemmy," Thomas pouts. "Stay awhile."

James rolls his eyes when Thomas gets an arm around his shoulders. "I should go," he repeats.

Sensing that he will lose this battle - Thomas isn't used to losing battles yet, and it's not a fun feeling - he rolls his eyes. "Fine. Hey, take the mystery bag with you. And don't you dare open it until you get home, or else."

James raises an eyebrow. "You want me to say 'or else what?'"

"Yep."

"Or else what?"

Thomas wiggles his eyebrows. "That, my dear Madison, is classified information."

 

Alexander Hamilton sits down over lunch with Eliza Schuyler. "This isn't a date," he says.

"That's what you said the last four times you took me out to lunch," she retorts.

"I know, I know. But I have a real excuse this time! I'm almost finished with an article about last night's robbery. I want to talk to you about it."

She raises her eyebrows. "You know I don't know anything more than what the police have told me, yes?"

"Yeah. It's still a shitty excuse. But anyway. You think it was connected to all the big art heists?"

He records what she says as they sip their drinks and eat their fancy sandwiches. Yes, she says, she thinks it's connected, but only in the sense that it's a copycat heist. These kinds of things happen when crimes get lots of attention: they attract imitation. No, she says, she can't imagine why someone would have stolen only her paintings, but she's almost flattered. Yes, she says, there have been several offers to purchase her sisters' paintings in the last few hours. No, she says, they haven't actually sold any yet. They're waiting to see if anyone will take the set as a unit, because that's how they should be.

When their conversation gets off track, Alex doesn't bother correcting its course.

 

Despite the barely-there threat of an "or else" piquing his curiosity, James dutifully doesn't open the mystery bag until he's safe within his apartment. More specifically, in his painting room. He's left Max Ernst under one of his lights to age, and he estimates it needs another hour and a half until it'll be ready for the next steps. In the meantime, he uncrumples the paper bag and retrieves its contents.

A set of five horsehair paint brushes, probably made at the turn of the twentieth century from the look of them. They're meant to go together, all of them with spindly carved-wood handles in the shape of dragons. James runs the tip of his index finger over the bristles. A little stiff from age, but once he softens them up, they'll be perfect. They'll only add to the authenticity of his copies. They are, by far, the most beautiful brushes in his collection.

_Must have cost a fortune,_ he thinks.  _And where did he even find him? Wasn't he at the grocery store?_

Not satisfied with putting the brushes in one of his brush cups and waiting for an occasion to use them, James decides he might as well test them out while Max Ernst is aging. He soaks them briefly in vinegar to soften the bristles, runs them under water until the vinegar is gone, and finds his smallest canvas.

After all, he's a painter in his own right. It's time he did some original work.

At first, he's tempted to take a page out of Corot's book, muted colors, neutrals and pastels, but this kind of beauty doesn't pair well with such soft tones. This kind of beauty needs a true Impressionist punch of color, an electric guitar instead of a violin.

This portrait deserves some purple.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay but real talk Corot's work is SO PRETTY.
> 
> Reading your comments always makes my day, so let me know what you think about the series so far!


	5. "Bar at the Folies Bergere" - Edouard Manet

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "I look like 'Bar at the Folies Bergere.' A little pissed off, facing the camera, rich detail, nice colors. Attractive, of course - when am I not?"

Aaron Burr sighs. He does this a lot.

"I'm worried," he admits. He does this less often. "I think it may be time to step up our security, given the recent string of thefts. I have taken the liberty of interviewing potential hires for the security team."

His colleagues all nod. "And have you found anybody?" asks someone.

"Two," Aaron says with a brisk nod. "They start tomorrow. Well, one tomorrow morning, the other tomorrow night."

Aaron has never really loved art, not like he feels he should. What good is working at the Met if you don't love art? But it pays well, and he's always got funny stories to tell his dinner-party friends about this or that art dealer making ridiculous demands. Theo goes to a good private school. They eat well. Does he really have to care?

Elsewhere, George Washington is sighing. He does this a lot.

"Okay, team," he says. "I've hired two new staff. Security detail. One at night, one during the day. I have to admit, I'm worried. All the theft. This should help. We all good?"

His coworkers nod. They know how deeply George cares about art. After all, you don't just work your way up at the Guggenheim if you haven't got a passion like his. They trust everything he does (well, most of them do), because they trust him to protect the art. How could he not care?

The full staff of the Guggenheim and the Met are satisfied with their new hires. One during the night, one during the day.

Hercules Mulligan and Gilbert du Motier Lafayette see each other every day between their alternating shifts at the two museums. They high-five.

 

It's three days before James sees Thomas in person again. They email back and forth, finalizing their plans for the Morgan Library. In his emails, Thomas keeps offering to come over, to bring groceries so he can keep learning how to cook, to pick James up. James keeps saying no, not now, not yet, just wait. From the tone of the messages, he thinks he can feel his partner getting fed up with him.

James has got to be alone right now. He's almost finished with his portrait, the one he's been painting on and off for the past three days. The horsehair brushes are holding up even better than expected.

At this point, he's not sure if he has a style. He's certain it changes every time he paints. This is... sort of Impressionist-y? None of those distinct wriggling lines or distortions, but all of that color and contrast you'd expect from a painting in that style. It's little - he didn't even use the largest brush for fear of losing all of the details - and it's just on the edge of realism, filled with too many purples and reds to be quite alive. Or rather, it's  _too_ alive, too much, coming off the canvas like no real person could.

 _So just like him in real life,_ James thinks.

He decides against screwing with the portrait. He's so used to fussing with everything he paints, solvents and aging and blackout curtains and historically accurate  _everything_ \- he's such a sucker for precision. This thing, though, doesn't need historical accuracy, given that it's only seventy-two hours old. In fact, Thomas might like it better if it's not cracked and faded and rubbed away in one spot.

 _I don't know why I'm nervous,_ James thinks as he waits for the varnish to dry.  _Or rather, I do. I don't give people my art. I sell it to people, and even then it's really someone else's._

He calls Thomas.

"Hey, long time no see," drawls the man on the other end of the phone. "I've missed you."

James, though he knows Thomas can't see him, rolls his eyes at the heavy sarcasm. "Must be tough," he says.

"Oh, it's been  _horrible_ without you, Jemmy, I've barely gotten by. You ready for a visit to the library? Corot's waiting for you. Though it's only, what, noon? Damn. Guess that just means I'll have to come over and we'll pass the time together!" He sing-songs the last part. James snorts.

"It's a sacrifice you'll have to make," he says. "Am I cooking?"

"Well I sure as hell ain't," Thomas retorts. "I'll bring food over. What d'you feel like making, man?"

"Whatever you're in the mood for."

"Is that a vague, noncommittal challenge?"

James laughs. "It can be."

"You're on, maybe."

He hears the click on the other end of the line and hangs up his own phone. James gets out various items from his kitchen cabinets: a pot, a pan, a wooden spoon, a couple of knives. Then he heads back into his painting room to make sure the varnish is all set. Can't be giving Thomas a wet painting. James stares at the eyes on the canvas, knowing them well. Despite his memory, he's constantly worried that he's messed up some small but all-important detail. This face, though, looks like the face he's coming to know better than his own.

Thomas was wrong when he said "long time, no see."

James has seen him every day.

 

The walk between their apartments is short.

Thomas hasn't even started it yet. He's standing in the front hall of his apartment, frantically Googling recipes that it's possible to make from the ingredients he has on hand. He settles, after a frenzied few minutes, on gnocchi (whatever that is), because it sounds fancy and he's got potatoes. He loads everything that might prove useful into one of those reusable grocery bags he's got (and, ironically enough, only ever used once), and fast-walks the whole way to his partner's apartment.

Despite his over-the-phone sarcasm, he has missed seeing James every day.

"Wonder if he's gonna give me a goddamn explanation as to where he's been the past few days," Thomas mutters as he strides down the sidewalk. He isn't  _worried_ , never worried. After all, he knows people - James more than most - and he can't imagine James being fed up with him or not wanting to see him. He's just... concerned.

James buzzes him through the front door, and he's left his apartment door ajar. He's already got some random cooking utensils laid out on his counter.

"Always prepared," Thomas acknowledges with a grin.

"I assume you brought me your most complex recipe?" James asks from a room somewhere deeper in the apartment.

"Something called gnocchi."

A distant chuckle. "You know that's just potato, right?"

"Well," Thomas huffs, "it  _sounds_ fancy." He plops his bag full of ingredients down on the counter, next to James's sundry utensils, and perches on the kitchen table to wait. He doesn't need to be patient - James emerges from his Room, the one with the paintings, within seconds. There's something small and square, wrapped in brown butcher paper and precisely taped, tucked under his left arm.

"You wanna learn how to make it?" James asks, a smile in his voice that's not on his face.

"Only if you'll teach me," he says, smirking and raising an eyebrow. Thomas, for once, is having a hard time pinning down how much fake ( _real?_ ) flirting he's allowed to do with James before it gets to be too much. Maybe he's pushing his limits for the day, but he doesn't seem to have broken any of them yet.

Thomas is a big fan of pushing limits.  _So why not keep pushing?_

Instead of dignifying Thomas's advances with a response, James smartly keeps silent and waves Thomas over to the counter. He instructs more by show than by tell, and if Thomas didn't know better, he'd see nervousness in the tight square of his shoulders.

As they drop the weird potato dumpling things into the boiling water, Thomas places a hand on his shoulder. "You cool, my man? You seem tense."

James shrugs. "Nervous," he says.

"Oh-kayyyyy." Thomas extends the vowel sound, looking for more. "Why?"

"Tell you after lunch. Dinner?"

"Linner," Thomas decides.

No, he's not worried. Never worried. Just... concerned. About James.

 

The gnocchi turns out alright. It's a little overdone for James's taste, but the garlic butter more than redeems it. Thomas devours two whole portions and pronounces it delicious with a delicate wipe of his mouth.

"So. Nervous?"

James rolls his eyes. "Indeed."

He grabs the wrapped painting from where he left it, balanced on the edge of the counter. It's occurring to him, the more he thinks about it, that this is a weird thing to do. James would be very weirded out if someone did this to him.

 _Then again,_ he thinks, trying to preserve that objectivity he does so well,  _Thomas Jefferson is not the easily-weirded type._

He places the little brown paper square on the table and steps back like it's a bomb Thomas is about to defuse and he needs his space to work. Thomas's eyebrows shoot up. Contrary to what James expects, he doesn't tear into the paper. He removes each individual piece of tape and takes his time unwrapping the paper, letting it fall away as he lifts the canvas from its butcher paper cocoon.

Thomas stares at the painting. He rubs a thumb over the edge of the canvas and opens his mouth before closing it again.

 _He might be weirded,_ James thinks.

"I look like 'Bar at the Folies Bergere,'" is the first thing out of his mouth.

James blinks. "Do you?" He pictures the Manet painting in his head, searching for obvious similarities. "Bar at the Folies Bergere" is realistic, sure, and it's Impressionism, sure, but the colors are comparatively dim, with a lot of busy background. Plus it depicts a white lady, which is about as far as one can get from Thomas Jefferson.

"Yeah, man. A little pissed off, facing the camera, rich detail, nice colors. Attractive, of course - when am I not? Makes you wanna tell off whoever I'm looking at for being obnoxious. Except, from what I can tell, I'm the obnoxious one." He grins, toothy and broad, and James can see his sharp canine teeth in his smile.

He squints again at the portrait in Thomas's hands. "Guess you do."

"It's really good, man. I don't know why you're doing this whole art heist thing. You could make it as a painter." He doesn't appear to process the words until after they've come out of his mouth and smiles to cover his mistake.

James isn't so quick to let it slide. "Hmm. I don't know. Why am I doing this whole art heist thing?"

Thomas shrugs and says, "Hell if I know. Man, whoever got you into that is an idiot."

"Yeah. And who would go along with such a crazy scheme, anyway?"

"Hey, I wouldn't be too hard on yourself," Thomas reassures him. "Most people will go along with just about any proposal if they happen to be charmed enough by the guy who's proposing it."

"You make it sound like I'm marrying you," James complains, wondering how he feels about that. In the past few days, painting Thomas has meant trying to parse his feelings for Thomas. Easier said than done. James does not consider himself an impulsive man. He plans, worries, and strategizes. He spends weeks perfecting a painting and determining whether the quality is good enough to sell it as the real thing or whether he should play it safe and call it a reproduction. He doesn't jump into things - least of all breaking into art galleries (well, only one so far) and stealing paintings with a handsome stranger (well, a friend now).

And the more he thinks about it, the more he realizes that almost no planning went into his decision.

He doesn't want to be somebody who will "go along with just about any proposal" just because he "happens to be charmed enough" by Thomas. Hell, he doesn't want to be somebody susceptible to charm. But Thomas has a talent for it. 

 _And hey,_ James thinks.  _It's not like it hasn't worked out so far._

"You make it sound like you're agreeing to marry me," Thomas teases.

"Slow down, we haven't even been on a date yet."

"Yes we have," Thomas retorts. "I took you to an art gallery."

 

Because it's a Friday night, the Morgan Library doesn't close until 9 p.m. Not long before closing, a couple of guys (both of them seem tipsy) stroll in, arm-in-arm, with touristy backpacks and touristy grins. They spend some time looking around, but since they're the only two left in the museum, the guards start locking everything down for the evening and trying to politely kick these two gentlemen out.

One of them, the shorter one, goes without a fight. He heads for the front entrance, letting the woman at the front know that he's just got to make a quick pit stop in the bathroom and he'll be out.

The taller one trails the guard around, asking questions about the books and the oil paintings of trees and just about everything in the museum, a real loudmouth who doesn't seem to understand the meaning of "we're closing."

It's another five minutes before they can manage to get him out. The guards, thankful that he's left, finish locking up with all the speed they can muster and turn out the lights. When they leave, they don't see either of the tourists anywhere.

"Good riddance," mumbles one to the other, and she laughs.

"Gotta hate the tourist types," she murmurs. "Honestly, I'm an American and even I hate Americans sometimes."

At five minutes after ten p.m., James Madison slips out of the bathroom and lets Thomas Jefferson into the Morgan Library.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another heist is in motion! Plus the feelings are only gonna get worse from here.
> 
> I love comments above all, so let me know your thoughts on the story!


	6. "Women Picking Olives" - Vincent Van Gogh

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It sits, serene, with its deep green swirls and cloudy, brick-tinged sky. It looks almost dull compared to the glimmer of the library around it, but there's a power in the contrast, like the painting is saying, "Who needs all that?"

"This is real," James murmurs as he opens the back door of the Morgan Library for Thomas. It occurs to him that this statement might not mean anything outside of his head. He means it in the most literal sense - this is a real thing that's happening to him, a Heist with a capital H. The Icarus gallery almost felt too easy, a few local artists and a few sound bytes on the news. This feels like the kind of thing that they'll write about in books about historic thefts.

_Late on a Friday night, a pair of men now known to be thieves entered the Morgan Library. While one partner distracted the guards, following them around while they locked up, the other hid somewhere in the library until all employees left for the evening. Then one of the men let the other into the museum. The partners-in-crime proceeded to steal several priceless paintings, including one by Jean-Baptiste-Camille Corot. To this day, the theft remains unsolved._

"This is real," Thomas confirms, grinning, teeth shining in the low red light of the exit sign. "This is one for the history books, my man."

James is certain he's never been this overcome with the urge to hug someone in his entire life. He's not typically a big touchy-feely guy. But, then again, he doesn't think he's ever had someone understand him as easily or as completely as Thomas Jefferson just did in two sentences.

"Let's steal some artwork," James says.

"Let's."

They venture further into the darkened library. The sumptuousness of it all, the gleaming golds and deep greens, take on a different quality in the dark. A little wistful, a little forgotten. James, adrenaline coursing though it may be, is still level enough to feel glad about taking a few paintings of trees. Surely they'll be more appreciated on the walls of Thomas's apartment, oohed and aahed by countless party guests, or given a place of honor in Thomas's room.

The exhibit keeps the paintings under glass. There's a weight sensor beneath the corner of the case, Thomas warns him. He saw the guard arm it. James slides a thin file beneath the glass and presses down.

No alarms go off when Thomas slides the glass away.

"Holy shit," Thomas breathes. "It must be on loan from the Met."

"What must be?" James asks, but by the time the words have left his mouth, he already knows the answer. There, dimly illuminated with reflections of distant lights, is a Van Gogh. Outside of Thomas's apartment, and maybe even inside of it, James has never been this close to a Van Gogh before.

It's "Women Picking Olives." It sits, serene, with its deep green swirls and cloudy, brick-tinged sky. It looks almost dull compared to the glimmer of the library around it, but there's a power in the contrast, like the painting is saying  _who needs all that?_

A weight James wasn't aware he had lifts from his shoulders, and Thomas - always flashy Thomas - sees the weight lifting and smiles. He puts his hand on James's, and even through their gloves James feels how warm he is - it's nice on his always-cold fingers, but the sudden touch still makes him flinch.

"Hey, chill, man, I'm just tryna put weight on the sensor," Thomas says, letting James slide his hand out from underneath without disturbing the sensor. "You take the paintings, man. They're calling your name."

"You sure?"

Thomas doesn't bother responding, just jerks his chin toward the paintings. James hardly dares to breathe as he removes the untitled Corot first, followed by "Women Picking Olives." Once they're out, James slides the glass back into place and, after they're sure all's well, Thomas removes the file. They take a minute, not moving, not speaking, to just look at the paintings now that they're out of their cage.

"No time," James murmurs. They look anyway. Then, when Thomas shifts and James coughs and the spell is broken, they wrap the paintings. The little Corot goes into Thomas's shoulder bag. The Van Gogh, three feet on one side, goes into James's giant-ass tourist backpack, which he left by the back door. They get out. They lock the door behind them. They leave no trace of their presence except the gleaming empty spots inside a glass case.

They hightail it to Thomas's apartment. As he comes down from the nervous rush, James feels jittery and exhausted and like he just might collapse. He also feels happy, lighter in some way than he has in recent memory.

"Warning you now," he says once they've safely entered and locked Thomas's apartment. "I'm about ready to fall over."

"I'll catch you," Thomas says, dropping his bag on the floor.

"I'm heavy," James warns.

"I'm strong," Thomas parries. He opens his bag and pulls out the Corot. James does the same with the Van Gogh. He moves to hand it to Thomas, but his hands are pushed back. This time there are no gloves between them. James, unsure why, feels his adrenaline rise again.

"Keep it," Thomas tells him.

"But it'll be more at home here."

"False. Besides, every great collector's gotta have one showpiece. Why not a Van Gogh to start you off?"

James blinks at him. "Repeat that?"

"A Van Gogh to start you off?"

He starts snickering, unable to stop himself, and states, "You're the sort of pretentious asshole who pronounces it  _Van Goff_." 

"That's how you pronounce it!" Thomas retorts. "It's not  _Van Go_."

"Except it is."

Thomas shrugs. "I mean, you should have known, man. There's no situation in which I'm not a pretentious asshole. But also, I'm right."

James could argue more, but he doesn't. He truly does feel like he's on the verge of collapse, and he's debating the pros and cons of letting Thomas catch him. James isn't sure what's happened to him recently, Thomas-wise, and he isn't sure how he feels about it.

He staggers over to the couch, staying more or less upright, and falls back into the soft cushions.

 

"Uh-uh," Thomas says when he sees his friend's eyes start to slip closed. "C'mon, I'm not gonna let you sleep on the couch tonight, my man. You've sure as hell earned a good night's sleep."

"Thomas, you could put me on any somewhat horizontal surface right now and I'd get a good night's sleep."

"Lucky for you, I've got a somewhat horizontal surface just in the next room. It's called a bed." He pulls James off the couch and leads him down the hall to the guest room. It's not quite as chockablock with art and furniture as the rest of the apartment. Everything's got a purpose, and the art on the walls isn't well-known enough for anybody to point out that Thomas stole it. It looks like the right kind of room for James, a pleasantly bare island in the middle of the sea of stuff Thomas keeps in the rest of the apartment.

"Shoes off," he says, keeping his tone teasing. James looks genuinely grateful for the reminder. He toes off his shoes and climbs into bed, looking smaller than he really is. He coughs a few times, and Thomas resolves to buy him some medicine. Even if he knows some of the coughing is faked to defuse awkward situations.

"Hey," James mumbles into his pillow. "How d'you always know what I'm thinking?"

"I dunno," Thomas responds, knowing just what he means by the question.  _Is that weird? That's gotta be weird._ "I mean, I know people. I'm like the goddamn Sherlock Holmes of people. I can just tell, most of the time. I know what buttons to push to get what I want done, done. But... I dunno, you're different. It's not that you've got no buttons. I just don't know where they are and I don't give a damn. I'm not worried about getting you doing what I want. You just make sense."

"It's like we're connected," James mumbles, dripping with sarcasm no matter how sleepy he is.

Thomas laughs. "Yeah, just like that. Get some sleep, my man."

He waits in the doorway until James Madison's breathing evens out, slowing way down, before turning off the light and murmuring a goodnight. 

He wonders how things would have gone if he'd been a little less nervous about James, a little less committed to getting him on his side. If he'd just gone up to James with a smirk he knows he does well, found his buttons, pressed them all at once and talked before James had a chance to recover. If he'd gone for anything other than the angle he went for. If he'd twisted the situation, made it into you-need-me, not I-need-you. They wouldn't be here.

 _I'd most likely be in the bed with him at this point,_ Thomas thinks, complaining via internal monologue.  _But then again, I dunno if he'd trust me, or I'd trust him. You don't get to get inside someone's head permanently when you aim for their buttons first._

And he knows, annoying as it is on lonely early Saturday mornings, that if he gets the choice, he'd rather be inside James's head than in the bed.

_Ugh. Both would be nice._

Thomas tosses his painting-robbing outfit into the hamper and pulls on a pair of pajama pants. He's not sure whether he'll be able to sleep tonight - he stays wide-eyed long after heists are over - but he might as well have the pretext of trying. Thomas shuts his light off and spends the next two hours screwing around on his phone, wondering how James Madison is doing.

At 1:58 a.m., he makes a decision. It's not James-related, which is surprising, but it is loneliness-related, which is not.

At 2:01 a.m., somewhere between forty and fifty people receive text messages from Thomas Jefferson inviting them over.

 

James wonders if, every time he wakes up at Thomas's place, he'll receive a sticky note. As with the last time, he mumbles the contents of this one to himself.

"Jemmy - Didn't want to wake you up. Feel free to use the shower or borrow something to wear or whatever. I'm out, and you probably don't want to stay for long - party this evening, and I know you're not a crowds guy. Hugs and kisses, Thomas."

James takes him up on the shower advice, though not the clothes. That feels almost too personal, a line that James can't be the one to cross. But the shower is fine. More so because his whole body feels dusty, like he left with the contents of the library sticking to his skin.

The shower is, of course, overcomplicated. It's one of those rain ones, and it feels like heaven after the fifteen minutes (and two shocks of freezing water) it takes to get it working to James's satisfaction. He feels the dust slide off of him. He can't hear anything besides the pattering of water. 

It's a nice departure from his thoughts.

Though he hasn't checked the time yet today, he senses it's still morning. Plenty of time to go home, finish up Max Ernst - after a few finishing touches, he'll be ready for the Met - and avoid having to stay here and prepare for a party. Or worse, attend the party. He still takes extra long in the shower.

So long, in fact, that when he steps out of the bathroom with yesterday's jeans thrown back on, still toweling off his hair, he comes face to face with Thomas Jefferson, who's still wearing his jacket.

"Hey," Thomas says, not moving.

"Hey. Sorry I stayed so long. Just woke up a little while ago."

"No, no, it's fine." Thomas waves a dismissive hand. "No such thing as overstaying your welcome with me. Plus the neighbors think we're dating anyway."

James nods. "Alright, thanks." They just stay there for a moment. James coughs. "Are you planning on moving?"

"Oh. Shit, yeah, sorry, man." Thomas steps out of the way, allowing him to speed straight for the guest room. He hears Thomas make a nervous, throat-clearing sort of cough behind him.  _Hey, I do that,_ he thinks.

James can already tell that everything is going to be weird today.

This trend continues when, several hours later, he finds himself dressed up in one of Thomas's nice shirts, just a shred too narrow across the chest and shoulders but in no danger of coming apart, talking to the woman whose painting he stole recently. She, Eliza, seems very pleasant, a light sense of humor and a delicate laugh to match, and James almost feels bad about stealing her work. Then again, she's wearing something different than she was at the art gallery, something that looks new.

So not  _that_ sorry.

As they're talking (James keeps losing himself in the conversation, with no real topic to tether him), a man comes up behind her and tugs at her sleeve. "Betsey, you wanna head out? I've got so much work to do, and our host is fucking annoying."

Eliza giggles. "Not yet, Alex. I mean, if you want to leave, I'm not stopping you."

"And let you go home unaccompanied?"

"My sisters are here."

"And do I really trust Peggy not to drag you into other, more interesting, more dangerous places on the way home? No." 

Eliza shakes her head and says, "Whatever you say." She turns to address James. "James, this is my... um... this is Alexander."

The man steps forward, from behind Eliza's shoulder, and James gets a full-lit view of his face. He leans back, surprised. "Hamilton?" he asks in disbelief.

"Madison?"

"You two know each other?"

Alexander launches forward to shake his hand. " _Do_ we! Good friends for the first couple years of college. Man, the shit you, me, and John Jay got up to was insane. How long has it been, now? Man, I've missed your writing talents."

"Only to make yours look better," James says. "What have you been up to, man?" 

With Alexander Hamilton, it's easier to ask an open-ended question and let him go, like a wind-up toy.

"Oh, little bit of everything. Was in law school for awhile, dabbled in economics, managed a lighthouse construction project - don't even get me started on ordering the bulbs for those suckers. That was a tedious few years. I'm in journalism now, writing for the  _Times_. I've been covering the art thefts lately, because everyone's interested and no one's got a fucking clue how to stop 'em. Couple good friends of mine - you know Hercules, of course, and Laf, he's a recent immigrant from France - anyway, they just got hired on at some of the big museums to keep the criminals out. Man, I can't even imagine what kind of person you've gotta be to steal art. That's pretty fucked up. But what've you been up to?"

 _I'm one of the guys stealing the art,_ James thinks. "A little bit of everything," he says. "For awhile I did a stint helping to draft a new company constitution for some up-and-coming trade firm. I've been trying to pursue painting, but..." He shrugs.

"Oh, yeah? What've you been painting? You gotta catch me up on everything, Mads, I miss ya."

James, wanting out of this conversation, is surprised when he gets just that. A sudden arm around his waist, a voice in his ear muttering "I got you, man," and a swift kiss on his cheek. James feels like he might collapse.

"Jefferson," Alexander acknowledges icily.

"Hamilton, so good to see you!" Thomas fires back, the fake kindness stabbing daggers through his words. He turns to James. "Babe, I didn't know you and Hamilton were acquainted."

"College friends."

"I am so sorry." He pulls James tighter to him, and Alexander, clearly not wanting to be a part of whatever follows, murmurs something to Eliza and practically sprints off the scene. Eliza shoots them an apologetic look and follows.

Thomas takes a second to let go of him. "Sorry," he mutters after that second. And then, recovering himself, he says, "And by sorry, I really mean 'you're welcome.' Trust me, Hamilton makes me uncomfortable too. Such an ass."

James shrugs. "I've never minded him," he says. "He talks too much, though."

"Agreed." Thomas lowers his voice again. "Seriously, though, I am sorry about that. I know you're not a big physical-contact guy?"

"No, no," James says, not sure whether he's agreeing or disagreeing. "It's... it's fine. I didn't mind."

 _Shit,_ James thinks.  _I didn't._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So how do you pronounce Van Gogh?
> 
> Comments typically make me squeal at my computer, so let me know your thoughts!


	7. "Bal du moulin de la Galette" - Pierre-Auguste Renoir

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The crowd in the painting feels so joyful, and Thomas pictures himself and James among those vibrant greens, those pale pinks, the wedding-white of the lamps.

It's a little after one in the morning when James Madison finally makes it back to his apartment with a Van Gogh in his backpack. He'd bet on the party still running at fever pitch back at Jefferson's, but he felt the crowd closing in and had to get out of there. Thomas understood. Thomas always understands.

There's mail waiting for him, half-tucked into his box in the lobby. He pulls it out and reads through it on his way upstairs, feet never faltering on the worn flights of steps. Two junk-mail index cards, a new National Geographic magazine, a few sheets of coupons for various art supply stores. Stuck between something from his insurance company and more junk mail is a heavy envelope. The paper is thick and pale blue and pockmarked, and the writing on the front is done in silver-grey pen.

James knows before he opens it.  _Dolley._  

He's always had something of a sixth sense about her, and she about him. And so, even before he opens the envelope, he knows what it'll contain. Probably her delicate penmanship (John Todd's handwriting just doesn't have that same zing) reminding all of her guests that yes, it's next Saturday, and yes, they've all agreed to come, so here's hoping you haven't made any other plans.

Someone else might have just sent out Facebook reminders. Many of Dolley's friends are the kind of people who don't have Facebook.

Sure enough, inside the envelope is a single sheet of paper, the same pebbled blue as the envelope, with Dolley's permanent-italics handwriting reminding him that her wedding is next Saturday and encouraging him to bring a guest because - he can practically hear this part in her voice - "there's a buffet, and we have to - well, John has to - pay extra for what we don't eat."

It's not that he forgot about the wedding. It wasn't at the forefront of his thoughts, given all the crazy shit that's been happening to him these days, but he still thought about it. It makes him an odd sort of sad, almost wistful. Dolley's one of the few close friends James has, and he's always felt like she could do better than John Todd. After all, back when they still lived in the same town and went to the same college and took the same classes, Dolley was the free spirit to his logic and planning, the outgoing sweetheart to his introverted... introvert. Never eager to settle down, she laughed off John Todd's advances as sweet but misguided for years.

Until, one day, she didn't.

For a long time after she and John moved away (before she even finished college), James felt a little drift-y. Without someone to draw him out into the world, he stayed inside his shell and his room and his books more often than not. It always felt like a shame to him, and he sometimes wondered if he should have proposed to Dolley himself, not withstanding his distinct lack of attraction to women. Though he never likes to waste time on wishing too long for things, James spent long hours missing having an opposite like that.

Until, one day, he didn't.

He checks the time, decides Thomas must still be awake given that the last party didn't end until far past this time, and texts him. Dolley's going to love Thomas Jefferson.

 

Thomas doesn't like checking his phone during parties. It makes him seem impersonal or rude, neither of which he can afford to be. But when it buzzes in the back pocket of his favorite jeans, he cuts himself off mid-story and holds up a finger. He knows before he pulls out his phone that it's James.

He's got something of a sixth sense about him.

"Sorry," he drawls, "but I gotta check this. It's James." He hits just the right note of warmth and affection in his voice, screaming  _it's my boyfriend!_ at the crowd around him without even saying the words. It concerns him a little that hitting that note is effortless for him.

The text is brief, filled with proper capitalization and punctuation, the tone perhaps too formal for the content of the message. James needs a date to an old friend's wedding. His old friend (Dolley) would get along swimmingly with Thomas, and besides, he knows few other people well enough to take them to a wedding, so would he like to come?

 _Of course. What's a partner for?_ Thomas types back.

"So what'd he say, Tommy?" asks a woman he doesn't know well. He dislikes her on principle for calling him Tommy, though other than that she's a nice enough woman.

"Just reminding me about next Saturday," he says, tossing the words like dandelion seeds on a breeze. "One of his old friends is getting married, and I'm his date to the wedding. Free food and dancing, right?"

"The only reason I come here," jokes a man Thomas likes far more than the woman. "So you were saying?"

"Right, right. So it's the middle of the night, and imagine who I trip over on the doorstep-"

Everybody trickles out of his house starting around three in the morning. By four, Thomas is alone, cleaning up halfheartedly from the party. He throws trash away wherever he sees it, but a lot of his cleaning just entails wandering around the apartment with a dopey grin on his face. He keeps ending up back in his roomful of art, staring at the forged portrait James painted. He didn't hang the picture of him in the roomful of art.

That's in his bedroom, hanging perpendicular to the desk, and if he lies on his side it's the last thing he sees before closing his eyes at night. Thomas isn't ashamed to admit he's self-centered, and part of why he likes it so much is that it's a damn good picture of him. But that's not all, because it's never all, because there's James.

Thomas pictures all the things that could happen at a wedding, closing his eyes to the paintings on canvas, choosing instead to paint the scene in his head.

For some reason, though, what keeps popping up is "Bal du moulin de la Galette." The crowd in the painting feels so joyful, and he pictures himself and James among those vibrant greens, those pale pinks, the wedding-white of the lamps. He pictures the things you do in a wedding crowd when you've been brought as someone's date. You become the pair of ladies at the ball, seated at a table, one's hand resting on the other's shoulder. You become the gentleman in the middle ground, clutching his dance partner to him like it would pain him to let her go.

Thomas hopes he gets to dance with James.

"Shit," he mumbles to himself, eyes still closed, still holding the Renoir in his mind's eye. Thomas knows better than to bring his (rapidly deepening) feelings into this. He knows how to compartmentalize, and this is the kind of situation that requires it. It's not just that he wants to avoid an action-comedy movie situation where one of them is captured and confesses to everything for fear of the other one's life, though that would be bad.

It's more that it would suck to lose his literal partner-in-crime to something as dumb as romantic feelings. It would suck a whole damn lot.

So he'll compartmentalize. He'll wander around his apartment just before five in the morning and stare at all the art and wonder why it doesn't compare to the forgery hanging in his roomful of paintings. He'll put on his party playlist when James texts him the details, asks for help deciding what to wear, and wishes him goodnight. He'll dance around to that playlist, kicking his feet up when something jazzy comes on. He'll imagine himself and James in a dozen wedding scenarios, all of them green and pink and white.

But when he's not alone in his apartment, Thomas resolves, he won't bring feelings into this.

This resolution gets harder to follow when, that Friday evening, he's standing in James's bedroom watching him rummage through his closet for the suit he swears he has. This alone might make things rough on Thomas, but James - who just picked a button-down to go under the elusive suit - has neglected to put his shirt back on. Thomas has lost track of how many times he's nervously run his own hand through his hair.

Which is weird, because he's never nervous.

"Look, man, you want me to try to find it?" Thomas asks, sounding more exasperated than he feels and at once regretting his tone of voice.

Too late. The damage is done. "Yeah, sure," James says, backing out of the closet to leave it open to Thomas. "Sorry." 

"No, hey, no. No 'sorry's, man. Just helping out. You know me, always looking to help a brother in need." He gives what he hopes is a winning smile to punctuate this statement, but James only squints at him. Thomas can tell what he's thinking.

 _Something's weird_ sums it up.

 _Yeah,_ Thomas thinks, directing the thought at James.  _No kidding._

He finds the suit within thirty seconds.

 

"James!" Dolley crows. After her first dance with John (her husband, she's Mrs. Dolley Payne Todd now, she's still getting over that), she found her old best friend right away. He looks the same as ever - handsome and mildly uncomfortable.

Then again, he also looks profoundly different than he ever has, hand-in-hand with a taller man, equally handsome but markedly less uncomfortable. He grins at Dolley and she grins right back. "This must be the date," she says, appraising him. "Nice catch, James."

"Sure is," James says with a genuine smile on his face. Dolley puts a hand to her heart.

"Shit, man, y'all are adorable." She turns to the date. "Hang on to this one," she says. "He's a real sweetheart."

"Oh, I'm planning on it," says the date. "Name's Thomas, by the way. Thomas Jefferson. Congrats, by the way. You two are a cute couple."

"We sure are!" Dolley agrees. "Anyway, I think dancing's about to happen, so I should probably find John. Seriously, though, James, would it kill you to text me? I need to know  _all_ about what you've been getting up to. Thomas, make sure he texts me."

"You say that as though he'll listen to me."

"I listen to you!" James insists. 

"So are you two dating-dating?" Dolley asks, not wanting to end the conversation though she knows John must be missing her by now.

"More like partners-in-crime," Thomas says with another winning smile and a kiss to the top of James's head. Dolley grins at them as she slips back into the crowd. Maybe she'll see more of them. She hopes so.

 

"So what'd you get her for a wedding gift?" Thomas asks. They're hovering off at the side of the wooden square that constitutes the dance floor. Dolley and John's relatives have started moving onto the floor and are currently tearing it up with one hell of a Cotton-Eyed Joe. James isn't sure whether he wants to join them. He knows he wants to dance with Thomas. He wonders if he'll have the courage.

"Well, she's an art-lover," James starts.

"Is that a condition of knowing us?" Thomas muses. "Because I don't remember the last time I spoke to someone who didn't care even a little bit about art."

James shrugs. "Might be. Either way, she knows I paint, so I did a replica of her favorite painting for her."

"Could have stolen it, given her the real thing."

"I painted it back before I knew you. Besides, it's in a museum in France right now, so not easily accessible."

"Details, details," Thomas says, waving a hand. "So what painting is it? She strikes me as a Cubism kind of gal."

"While she's a Picasso fan, her favorite's actually a Renoir. 'Bal du moulin de la Galette.' It was hell and a half to paint, but it was worth it seeing her face when she opened it. You were in the bathroom for that part. She hugged me so tight I thought I'd lose consciousness."

Thomas blinks at him, eyes trained on his face. James feels like he's being looked through, like Thomas is seeing some deeper truth behind his forehead and cheeks and nose. Instead of questioning it, he waits for the scrutiny to end. It's not often Thomas goes so silent. James is torn between worrying and savoring it.

"Let's dance," Thomas says, and his silence is broken as swiftly as it started. He bounces up on the balls of his feet and extends a hand to James. "It'll be fun. Besides, I love this song."

The DJ is playing something saccharine, with a chorus that repeats about a million times, that was all over the radio last year. James doesn't mind this song either, and he's beyond relieved that Thomas took the initiative. He ignores the hand that's offered to him, fearing he won't be able to handle that right now, and leads the way onto the wooden square of flooring, weaving between people until he finds them a clear spot.

They get maybe four seconds of the pop song before the music switches. Slow. Too slow. James planned for this scenario, imagined it out in his head in ten or twenty iterations, determined a plan for good endings and bad. But he is here, and the room is hot and crowded, and Thomas Jefferson is, for lack of a better word, beautiful. The lights are soft pink and vibrant green, and part of James's head is panicking, but part is too serene.

"Would you care to dance?" Thomas asks with a broad smile.  _It's not his usual smile,_ James thinks, and then oddly,  _he looks nervous._

The wheels in James's head are spinning too fast, threatening to break their axels with a crashing whine. It's at this point that he forces himself to acknowledge that yes, he's really,  _really_ romantically interested in Thomas Jefferson. Which is weird because he doesn't think of himself as being romantically interested in anybody.

"Sure," James says. "I'd love to."

And then there's a hand in his and an arm around his waist and he fumbles for a second before putting his free hand on Thomas's shoulder, because that seems like the appropriate place to put it, and frankly this is so much  _more_ than he planned for. The lights are brighter, the room is warmer, the crowd is thicker. But the hand in his and the hand on his waist have the wrong effect, the opposite effect they're supposed to. They cool him. They calm him.

James closes his eyes and takes a deep, smooth breath in. Lets it out. "Thomas-"

"Shh," Thomas says. This is all he says.

James lets himself be swayed to the rhythm of the song, and even though he knows he doesn't have to, he memorizes the feeling of this dance anyway. The soft pulse of the lights getting lost in Thomas's hair, the blurry warm spot on his waist where a hand rests, the feeling of fingers intertwined with his, a smell somewhere between Thomas's cologne and wedding cake, and an ache in his chest that he wishes he didn't know the name of.

As the song slips into its bridge, James decides he can't let his feelings bleed into this. After all, stealing paintings with somebody is a delicate operation, one that requires confidence in each other's abilities, trust above anything else, and a certain level of comfort with being in literal and figurative tight spots together. No one's comfortable around someone who's romantically interested in them when it's unrequited. That's not a chance James is willing to take.

He can't lose the most interesting thing that's happened to him in years. He won't let the butterflies in his stomach take this away from him.

When the song ends, he wonders whether Thomas actually leans in before pulling away, or whether he just wants it to happen.

James excuses himself with a coughing fit that starts fake but turns real and spends the next ten minutes in the bathroom. He runs his hands under cold water to get the intoxicating feeling of Thomas Jefferson off of them and pictures the dance over again in his head, completely defeating the purpose.

That evening, Thomas drops him off at his apartment and loiters in the doorway. "Thanks for inviting me, man," he says. "It was fun. And I liked your friend Dolley. What's-his-face is lucky to have her."

James shrugs. "Personally I think she could do better."

"Oh, obviously. You shoulda married her, man."

"As per usual, you've read my mind. Still, I hear marriages can get a little awkward when wives realize their husbands aren't into women."

Thomas raises an eyebrow. "Didn't know you were gay."

"Neither did I - which, come to think of it, must be why you didn't know. But it sure does seem like it." James says this while racking his brain for a way to change the subject. This is dangerous territory. Thomas, bless him, senses James's discomfort.

"So hey, you thought about our next target?"

"Max Ernst is done, so in theory, it'd be MoMA. But I don't know. That almost feels like-"

"Too much," Thomas finishes, nodding in agreement. "It's what you've been doing your training montage for. Feels like a shame to get there so soon, doesn't it? Maybe we'll head somewhere else big first, save MoMA for some other day. There's plenty of equally impressive places to break into. The Guggenheim, the Met... the world is your oyster, my man."

"Plenty of pearls to steal," James agrees.

Thomas snorts. "I'm almost disappointed you didn't say 'plenty of pearls to pilfer.' Or purloin, that would have been good."

Echoing Thomas just moments ago, James, too, makes a snorting laugh. "That would have been better. Hey, it's late. You wanna stay over?"

His brain is screaming  _danger danger danger_ , but the smile on Thomas's face is too bright, too rewarding for James to feel bad. "Sure, thanks, man," Thomas says. "You got a guest room or am I relegated to the couch tonight?"

"No guest room, but I can sleep on the couch," James offers, waving Thomas in.

"Or we can just share." The grin on his face, so bright and open just seconds ago, has turned wicked and teasing and flirty, and James knows this grin is not intended to draw him in because Thomas isn't supposed to be  _able_ to draw him in, but damn, that's a grin he'd like to kiss.

 _What the hell is happening to me?_ he wonders.

He must have frozen, because Thomas's smile has melted and he's got a soothing hand rubbing gently over James's shoulder. "Hey, sorry, man, I'm just messing with ya. I'll take the couch. You wouldn't want to share a bed with me anyway, I kick in my sleep."

"Of course you do," James hears himself say. And when Thomas falls asleep on his couch, it feels like a lost opportunity. It's becoming clear to James that he's going to need to get better at compartmentalizing, fast.

Before he goes to bed, he googles the Renoir painting and zones out, picturing the dance, his phone lit up green and soft pink and white beside him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ok so I LOVE Renoir (almost as much as I love making these two nerds pine for each other).
> 
> Leave me your thoughts in the comments!


	8. "Circus Sideshow" - Georges Seurat

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's pointillism, which James has never loved, but it feels right tonight. The painting is nothing but tiny dots, which taken together are an almost surreal depiction of a musician, dark purples paired with warm yellows.

He can't believe he forgot his phone here. He told everyone to go on home, yes, he knows how to re-arm the door locks, he  _runs_ this place for God's sake. He just needs a few minutes to figure out where he might have put his phone. It's not in any obvious locations. He's resorted to thinking he must have put it down for a moment in one of the galleries and just left it there.

So even though he knows exactly why he's here, stepping carefully and patting at every flat surface to see if it contains his phone, Aaron Burr still wonders,  _How the hell did it get to this?_

Aaron wanders from one room to the next, wondering why the lights aren't going on automatically. They invested in one of those motion-sensor light packages years ago. The staff must already have turned them off for the evening. He navigates by the light of his phone before giving up and switching the lights in one gallery on manually.

_Hang on._

He looks down at the phone in his hand and groans.  _I'm too young to be getting old,_ he thinks. Aaron makes a move toward the wall to switch the lights off again when he hears something.

"What the hell'd you turn the lights on for, man?" calls a voice from deep within the museum.

After a beat, much quieter, he hears another voice say, "That wasn't me."

 

Maybe their first mistake was not having a defined plan for this one. Or rather, not having quite as much of a defined plan. They still researched meticulously, staying up late nights making sure they knew the layout, the schedule, the people working, and how not to get caught. But when James asked what they were planning on stealing, Thomas had shrugged.

"I dunno, man," he said. "We'll figure it out when we get there. Have a little adventure."

So maybe that's why they're still standing here in front of Georges Seurat's "Circus Sideshow" instead of already being out the door. Maybe that's why, not so far long into his art-stealing career, James is pretty damn certain he's about to get caught.

"Shit," Thomas whispers. "You got a plan?"

James doesn't respond. They can't afford to, now. They don't have enough time. He grabs Thomas's hand and tries to ignore the rush of adrenaline (it's definitely not just coming from fear right now) and pulls him toward the exit, creeping silent as a shadow. Thomas has the good sense to shut the hell up and follow James's lead, which is something that's never happened before. Not because Thomas lacks sense, but because James doesn't lead.

He moves to duck them out the door, but Thomas plants himself. In the sliver of moonlight available to them, he sees Thomas's eyes go wide. "Backpack," he whispers.

"Fuck." They left it in the gallery. It's either go back and get caught or leave it there and get caught.

James nods, and they reverse their steps, moving back into the gallery. The bag seems to be where they left it. Thomas picks it up, motions for them to  _go go go_ , and freezes like a startled deer when the light goes on.

"What the hell are you doing?" asks the man in the doorway.

It seems like Thomas is just one smile away from the perfect lie to charm them out of this situation, but James is still panicking. He knows how this looks from the outside. Two guys with backpacks standing in front of a painting, appearing an awful lot like people who want to steal it. It's worse because that's the truth.

James lowers his head and waits for Thomas to talk them out of this. He thinks about "Circus Sideshow." It's pointillism, which he's never loved, but it feels right tonight. The painting is nothing but tiny dots, which taken together are an almost surreal depiction of a musician, dark purples paired with warm yellows. This is surreal, too, waiting for the jail cell to close in around him. James thinks he's never liked pointillism because he looks too closely at the little dots to observe the whole picture.

He can't imagine Thomas loves it either. How can you appreciate a pointillist painting when you don't notice the dots?

"Oh, just take it," says someone who is not Thomas and who is definitely not James.

"Whaaaaat?" Thomas asks, the sound drawn out and thin in his disbelief. "No way, man. We're not just gonna  _take_ -"

"That one freaks me out anyway. Just take it and don't hurt me or whatever and we can all go home and move on with our lives."

"He's fucking with us," James says quietly, still not raising his head.

"I'm not," says the guy, at the same time as Thomas says, "He's not."

This is the first point at which James dares to raise his eyes toward his surroundings. The man - he must work here, he's dressed sharply and has a pin on with the logo of the Met - is shorter than either he or Thomas, with a shaved head and a sly-looking face. Automatically, James is staggered by a complete lack of trust for this man. He seems nice, he seems smart, but there doesn't appear to be any reason to trust him.

Which is why Thomas's assertion that he's not lying - Thomas, who knows people better than anything in the world - holds less weight than it would at any other time.

"How do you know?" James asks.

"I just  _do_ ," Thomas insists. "You know how it is. I don't trust him either." 

The man looks taken aback.

"But he's not lying?"

"But he's not lying."

"Glad we got that sorted out," the man says drily. "I'm Aaron Burr, in case either of you was planning on asking. Now if you'd please take the painting and leave, it's late and my daughter's home alone."

"How do we know he won't just go to the police?" James asks, directing his question at Thomas and ignoring Aaron Burr.

"We just do," Thomas says. "Look, I'll bet you on it. If we end up in jail or on trial for this, I owe you one."

"One what?"

"Wouldn't you like to know," Thomas says, wiggling his eyebrows. Despite the situation, James laughs.

Aaron Burr rolls his eyes at them and gestures silently at "Circus Sideshow." James looks at Thomas, and to his surprise, Thomas is already looking at him. There's a plea in his eyes like someone asking for permission - or, no, for approval.  _Please, just tell me it's okay, tell me you trust me, tell me we can do this._

James blinks, reminding himself that he doesn't know as much about people as Thomas.

"Sure," he says.

With Aaron Burr still watching (the situation feels wrong, almost voyeuristic, like James himself is the circus sideshow to be watched), they remove the painting from its place, wrap it with the utmost care, and place it inside Thomas's bag. Aaron nods.

"I could help," he offers. "I work here, after all."

"You'd help enough by leaving," Thomas grumbles.

"Why, though?" James asks, wanting to leave  _right now_ but also overtaken by his curiosity. "You work at the Met. Do you not... care?"

"I know I should, but I don't. I don't have much of an opinion on art. The Met pays, so I work here. It doesn't matter much to me whose wall the canvas is hanging on. Now shall we all go home?"

"We shall," Thomas says, hand wrapped around James's wrist and straining to get him toward the door. "Thanks, Aaron."

"If you ever come back," he says, "ask for me. You two seem like the kind of side I wouldn't mind taking."

With that cryptic announcement, he walks out and turns off the lights. The room is thrown into darkness, skewing the colors toward dark purple. James Madison has no idea what the fuck just happened, and so long as he doesn't end up in jail, he doesn't care. The problem is that he doesn't know whether he'll be ending up in jail. Burr does not seem like a man to be trusted, in any universe, for any reason.

But days pass. Seurat goes up on Thomas's wall. The days turn into weeks, which pile up until they become a month. James advises Thomas that they lie low during that time. There are a few news stories on the painting being stolen. Each one includes the phrase "no leads." Aaron Burr shows up on TV for one of the stories, lying flawlessly by omission, not breathing a word about what he saw. This doesn't make James trust him any more.

"So I guess he meant it, huh?" James asks. It's a Monday afternoon. Summer is creeping up on New York in a web of warm breezes and cloyingly sweet smells. They're on Thomas's couch, watching the news, which contains no mention of art theft.

"I guess so," Thomas says. He ruffles James's hair. "And you didn't believe me when I said he wasn't lying."

"Well, you have to understand my doubt."

"Yeah, yeah. Still, Mads, when're you gonna learn to trust me?"

James, after rolling his eyes at the new nickname, considers this question. He considers breaking into Icarus Art however long ago. He considers the wedding dance. He considers the moments when Thomas smiles without trying.

"I trust you," he says. "If I didn't, I wouldn't be here."

"True. I don't like to spend my days in the apartments of people I don't trust," Thomas acknowledges.

"No," James sighs, "I mean  _here_."

"I know what you mean."

"Of course you do."

 

"I just don't know how it's happening," Aaron Burr says in a lunch meeting with the most talkative journalist he's ever met. "Whoever's stealing these paintings, they're like a shadow. Get in, get out. We're doing everything we can, but..."

"Remind me again what was stolen?" asks the reporter.

"A Seurat. 'Circus Sideshow,' if I remember correctly."

The reporter nods eagerly. "Right, right. Maybe I shouldn't ask you to engage in speculation, but any theories on where this string of thefts is gonna stop? D'you think whoever's doing it is selling them on the black market? Keeping them? Replicating them? Giving them away?"

Aaron shrugs. "I wish I knew," he says.

 

Thomas is loving this whole domesticity thing. He and James, on a couch, drinking coffee and wearing sweatpants (both pairs are his, and they're a little long on James, which delights him). It's even nicer because, for the past few days, they haven't seen much of each other. James was off doing some drafting project for some start-up that an acquaintance of his started up. It made him realize that half his life right now revolves around James Madison.

He watches his partner - his friend - watch TV. Reflections of the images dance in his dark eyes, and Thomas finds himself consciously stopping himself from seeking out James's buttons and smashing them all at once. Still, once Thomas's mind starts wandering, there's no stopping it. It wanders circles around James.

_He's stopped minding a lot of physical contact since we've started hanging out, if he ever minded in the first place. There's got to be something there. He's lost the accent, for the most part, that he must have had when we both lived in Virginia. Is that a conscious thing? Does he dislike Virginia accents? I don't want to be the one to find that out. He's been painting more - it's all over his hands. Original work, maybe? He painted me that one time._

_Am I a button?_

"Hey, James," Thomas says. James doesn't turn his face from the TV, but his eyes skim sideways until he's looking at Thomas.

"Yeah?"

"Anyone ever tell you that you're cute?"

James swallows, and though he doesn't say anything, the sputtering in his brain is almost audible. "Not recently," James replies, sounding far smoother than he seems to feel. This smoothness is broken by a worryingly long coughing fit.

"Well damn, that's just a tragedy," Thomas says once the coughing ceases, feeling a grin slide onto his face. "Lucky you, you got me, and I am prepared to tell you how cute you are every damn day."

"I look forward to it," James says wryly. He skates his eyes back toward the TV and taps his fingers against his knee in a tuneless pattern. Thomas knows his mouth is curling in a wicked smile and doesn't bother to stop it.

 _Now that,_ he thinks,  _is very interesting. People must not compliment him a lot, least not like that._

He knows, logically, that seeking out buttons is a terrible idea. People don't trust you when you smash all their buttons at once. James's trust, too, seems like it's hard-earned and harder to earn back. He still doesn't trust the man they met a month ago, even though he hasn't ratted them out to the police yet.

Thomas forces himself to stop before he goes any further down this path. No feelings allowed here.

_Doesn't help that he is cute, though._

"So," Thomas says, "whadaya wanna do tomorrow? We got the whole day free."

James shrugs, still looking somewhere between pleased and embarrassed. "I dunno," he says. "Could go to a museum."

Thomas cracks up. James laughs, too, but his laugh quickly develops into a hacking cough. Thomas is used to James coughing politely to defuse an awkward situation or signal his discomfort, but this is less familiar.

"Hey, you okay?"

Coughing. James waves a hand as he presses his face into his elbow, the coughs racking his body. Thomas knows that means  _I'm fine, it's okay_ , and maybe he is, but maybe he's not. He bounces off the couch and helps James up.

"C'mon, you're gonna go lie down. I'll get you some meds. I swear you've been sick since we met."

"I'm fine, Thomas. I'm always sick. It's okay."

"You don't cough like that, my man. You're lying down and that's it." He leads James by the elbow, not even thinking of the guest room but steering him straight to his room. Closer to the bathroom, and thus the medicine cabinet.

"This really isn't-"

"Are you sick?"

James nods.

"Then you are lying down, damn it. Need you in tip-top shape for MoMA." He pushes gently on James's shoulders and he goes without a fight, kicking off his shoes and coughing his way down toward the sheets. Thomas appraises him and nods.

"Better. Since I'm the world's best partner, I'm going to get you some meds and purchase you food instead of trying to cook it for you. You want soup? Soup's supposed to be good for sick people, right?"

"I could actually go for pasta," James says. There's no tension in him. He seems to have accepted the situation. Good.

"Kay. I'll be back in half an hour, tops."

"You know you don't have to do this," says James. Thomas pauses in the doorway. "I've gotten through mono on my own, I can deal with a cough."

"Anyone ever take care of you when you got sick before? No?" James shakes his head, and Thomas turns to face him fully. "So you understand that I do have to do this."

And he does. He's got to do this because, feelings be damned, James is still his friend and partner and he really  _does_ need him to get better as soon as possible if they're going to steal and replace Max Ernst. If one doesn't discount some of the feelings, he's got to do this because no one ever has before, and James deserves it. Poor guy's brain is always on. If one lets all the feelings have their say, he's got to do this because he loves James ( _loves him, damn_ ) and if this is what it takes to keep him in his bed, Thomas is more than okay with James being sick for awhile.

He peeks back into the room once more before he leaves. James is curled up, taking up less space than Thomas would expect for such a big guy, reading one of the books that was piled up on Thomas's bedside table.

Thomas slips out and heads to the pharmacy. He's got cough medicine to buy.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next time: more fake dating! Sickfic! Shenanigans with painting!
> 
> Comments brighten my day 100% of the time!


	9. "Autumn Rhythm (Number 30)" - Jackson Pollock

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The painting is a tan and grey jumble of blots and streaks.  
> The inside of James's head feels tan and grey and white and confused and jumbled and congested.

Aaron Burr's getting a rare rest, sitting down at his desk signing off on someone's application for something or other, when a man knocks on his open doorframe. Aaron glances up, careful to keep his eyes neutral.

Tall Heist Guy is in the doorway.

"You said I should ask for you," he says by means of explanation. "Well, here I am."

"What for?" Aaron asks, standing up from his desk and ushering the man in. The man shakes his head and keeps his feet firmly planted in the doorway. Even though he's leaning, he seems to be drawn up to his full height. His casualness is an intimidation tactic.

Lucky for Aaron, he's not easily intimidated.

"Just checking up," the man says. "Actually I figured you'd probably be helpful, one way or another, so I figured I'd try to get some reliable means of contacting you besides 'ask for me.' Ya know, there's this great thing I heard about called cell phones."

"And you want my number."

"Nice one, Holmes." The man rummages in the pockets of his sweatpants for a moment before pulling out a beat-up old cell phone. "Put it in. You got your phone on you?"

"Mm-hm."

"So you don't mind if I check to make sure you ain't fucking with me?"

"Uh-uh."

The man nods and sends Aaron a text message that says nothing but  _thanks_. They both pocket their phones, one smooth motion for each of them. Aaron raises an eyebrow, wondering if this is gonna be the end of it. It doesn't seem like it. The guy - still in the doorway, for God's sake - sticks out his hand for a handshake.

"Thomas," he says. "Like I said, I'm sure you'll be useful."

"Any way I can help," Aaron replies, trying for a pleasant grin. Maybe it's weird, but he does want to help Thomas and the other guy out. They seem cool. They seem close. They seem to have purpose and drive and a way of getting what they want, and if Aaron's gonna hang onto somebody for ambition's sake, it ought to be these guys.

Thomas crosses one ankle over the other and drops his volume by half. "My partner still doesn't trust you," he says, "and frankly I think he's right not to."

"Why's that?"

"You seem like the kind of dude who'd say anything to get ahead. But you haven't breathed a word about us to the police yet, so we'll work together at some point. Not yet though. I'll give you a call."

Aaron shrugs. "Do what you have to do."

Thomas nods. "Planning on it. Now, I have to dash. Gotta pick up some cold medication and some pasta for my partner. Poor guy's sick in bed, bet he's sleeping like a baby right now. Keep that phone on, Aaron. I'll call you."

Not two minutes later, one of his coworkers pokes her head into his office. "Who was that?" she asks.

"New friend," Aaron responds without hesitating.

 

The woman at the pharmacy flirts with Thomas as he picks up the cold meds. He's not in the mood today, so when she asks with a sympathetic pout whether they're for him, he shakes his head. "Nah," he says, tossing his curls out of his face. "They're for my boyfriend."

"Oh, I see." She pauses. "Sure hope these help!"

 _She handles this stuff well,_ Thomas thinks, glancing out of habit at her hands. Chipping nails done in bright yellow, rings on every other finger but the wedding-band one. He does this without thinking about it. Knowing people is how he makes his living, more or less.

_Sure would be nice if that extended to James. I can tell a whole lotta shit about him, I know how he's feeling, I can figure out when he appreciates people taking care of him when he's sick, I know compliments embarrass him, he's a better dancer than he thinks he is, all this shit. But ask me how it looks when he's flirting with someone and I'm lost. My god, you know I've got it bad when I'd trade all this "knowing people" BS to figure James out._

_It's classic, though, ain't it? Boy always wants what he can't have. Boy wants to touch the paintings, everyone says "no touching," so he starts stealing them. Gets what he wants. Boy wants everybody to like him, everyone says "you can't please everyone," so he learns how to read a person. Gets what he wants. And then one day a guy comes along, a fucking perfect guy, and the boy says "I want him." And everyone says "How?" And the answer is every way, I want him every goddamn way to Sunday, but the moral of the story is you can't have it all and the most important choices are always the hardest and blah, blah, blah._

_So the boy keeps on wanting the one thing he can't have, and everyone says "go for it," and the boy says "I can't." I should be a children's book author. This is some good shit._

"Hate to interrupt," says the man at the counter of this tiny two-table Italian place, "but your takeout's been ready for a few minutes, sir."

Thomas blinks. "Sorry, man. Here. Thanks. Yeah, just put my change in the tip jar. Have a good day, now."

"You too," says the man at the counter.

He takes the pasta and the cold medicine back to his apartment and wonders if a way to have it all exists. He can't think of a single goddamn one - though, to be fair, most of his ideas involve traveling back in time to before he realized just how much he wants it all.

When he opens the door, his apartment is filled with the sounds of a hacking cough. "James?" he calls. "You okay there, bud?"

"Yeah-" Coughing. "-Fine, just-" Coughing.

"Yeah, you sound awesome," Thomas says dryly. "I brought you meds and pasta." He removes his shoes and makes for the kitchen, busying himself with transferring the pasta from takeout container to plate. He pours a glass of water, puts a pair of the anti-cough pills next to it, and plops the whole thing on a little tray. The whole nine yards.

James is still curled up in Thomas's bed.  _Fuck,_ Thomas thinks,  _I'm already getting used to that._ He's moved on from the book he was reading earlier to one that was further down in the bedside table pile.

"You finish that one already?" Thomas asks, joking.

"Mm-hm," James says, not joking. "Fast reader. Now I'm just reading  _A Separate Peace._ Why've you got all these pages marked?"

"Made - and won - a bet that the main characters are gay," Thomas says.

James nods thoughtfully. "I see that. I mean, it's easy to confuse close friendship for people being into each other, I think, but... yes, Gene and Finny are awfully gay. How was the pharmacy?"

Thomas swallows. "Uh... fine. Here's your food and meds, man. I'm gonna go... read or something. Enjoy the pasta."

"Hold on, Thomas. Are you alright? Did I do something?"

And God help him, James's eyebrows have knit together and he's trying to push himself out of bed on his elbows. Thomas has to push him back down by one shoulder. "Nah, man, nothing you did. I'm just exhausted. I mean, I just spent a whole, like, forty minutes attempting to purchase goods and services from a pharmacy  _and_ an Italian restaurant. You know how draining that is?"

James chuckles. "If you say so. But tell me you're not playing the 'I'm not sad, I'm just tired' card."

"There's a card for that? Damn, Hallmark's gotten better."

"Go read, Thomas," James says with a smile. "And thank you for the-"

He doesn't get the chance to finish his sentence before breaking into a coughing fit. Thomas waves an insistent hand toward the pills and glass of water before slipping out of the room to go read. Or something.

_Shit, does he know? He's got to know. He said that with too much purpose for him not to know. Of course he's aware, James is a perceptive guy, I wouldn't like him if he wasn't. This is the first step in my inevitable downward slide. "You can't have it all," everyone said._

 

The inside of James's head feels like "Autumn Rhythm," a tan and grey jumble of blots and streaks. The inside of James's head feels tan and grey and white and confused and jumbled and congested. He thanks Jackson Pollock for painting the perfect representation of being sick, a little too warm, and in love.

_Man, I know I'm sick when I start liking Pollock._

James has never prided himself on understanding people. But even he can tell when someone's playing the not-sad-just-tired card. It's his favorite card to play (though, in fairness, he often is just tired). Something's wrong with Thomas, and it seems like that something came on all of a sudden. Because, oddly, of the protagonists of  _A Separate Peace._ James doesn't have the energy to puzzle through that right now.

He keeps reading, but he feels his mind drift. Not far, just to the next room. He liked those brief moments of Thomas taking care of him.

_It feels so rare every time he drops the whole self-serving lovable asshole thing, even though he does it a lot. That's only half of him, really, and a good half, but it's the only half he ever bothers to show people. It's like he says "wait, get my good side" every time someone wants to talk to him. Except it's the asshole side. Which is a shame, because the asshole side is great, but I like the side that brings me dinner on an actual tray._

_I like all his sides. He's messy and confusing sometimes, yeah, and hard to get used to, but it's like Autumn Rhythm. Lots of stuff is today._

_Boy, have I got it bad._

James has already come to terms with the fact that Thomas is not within the realm of possibility for him. It's a fact. James finds facts easy to swallow. He can admire Thomas up close, he can steal paintings with him and teach him to cook and stay in his bed,  _or_ he can make his feelings known.

Not even a contest.

James curls tighter into himself and takes another forkful of fettuccine, turning his page with his free hand.

_Would it be nice if he knew? Yes. But since I seem to be the kind of person who keeps secrets now - big, art-theft secrets - it's just one more to add to the pile. I should text Dolley. She'll get it._

He sends her a quick "hey, need romantic advice" and goes back to his book.

In his head, he debates the merits of trying to steal a Jackson Pollock painting.

Less than thirty seconds later, Thomas pokes his head into the room. "Hey, not to question your methods of communication or anything, but if you needed love advice I am literally in the next room."

James looks down at his phone in a panic. Sure enough, he picked the wrong recent conversation to send that to. "Sorry," he said. "That was intended for Dolley. I find that married people tend to be good at giving romantic advice."

"I am too," Thomas insists.

"Trust me," James says, "you might not be the best guy for the job."

Thomas puts a hand to his chest, mocking deep offense. "You wound me, Mads," he says. "I have advice for every problem. Guy caught your eye? Ask him out. Guy rejects your advances? Steal all of his artwork and leave."

"See, it's easy for you to say that, given when someone catches your eye I'm sure you have no problem asking them out on the spot."

"True."

"Some of us aren't quite so socially gifted. And thus some of us prefer to pine from afar."

Thomas shrugs. "I'd suggest stealing all his artwork."

James nods seriously. He's trying to think of a witty comeback when he's saved by a shuddering fit of coughs. Thomas slips back into Worry Mode, triple-checking to make sure James is in no danger of immediate death before sliding away to the other room again. James looks at the name four times before texting Dolley - for real this time.

 

It's late when Thomas hears freaky rustling noises coming from his bedroom. He's trying to sleep in the guest bedroom, but the bed just doesn't feel right. And the freaky rustling isn't helping either.

He knows logically that James isn't getting kidnapped by ghosts.

But he goes in to check anyway.

James is pacing around the room with the comforter - the whole comforter, yanked right off the bed - wrapped around his shoulders and trailing behind him like a puffy white cape. The little lamp next to the bed is on. He jumps when Thomas opens the door, eyes as wide as saucers.

"What the- oh. Oh. Okay. Thomas. It's you."

"I can confirm," he says warily. "What are you doing, man? It's late."

"Waiting."

"For...?"

James taps his temple. "Had a nightmare. Waiting until everything cools off up here so I can sleep again. It happens. More so when I'm sick."

"You're always sick."

"Fair. Sorry if I woke you up."

"No, no, you're fine. You, ah, you want me to stay?"

James pauses, looking at Thomas with eyes so wide, this time with something like hope and not something like fear, that Thomas can see the white all the way around. "Would you?" James asks. His voice is too small. Even with a gigantic comforter adorning his broad shoulders, James Madison is too small.

"I would. C'mon, man, put the blanket back and I'll guard you from the monsters like a proper teddy bear."

"Weird image," James murmurs as he unwraps the comforter and lays it back on the bed, straightening the edges until it's perfect. He burrows underneath it, more to one side of the bed, and pauses. "You don't have to," he says. "I'm okay. I'm just tired at this point."

Thomas raises an eyebrow. "Tell me you're not playing the 'I'm not sad, I'm just tired' card."

"Didn't know Hallmark made those," James shoots back.

Clambering under the blanket next to him, Thomas realizes this feels a lot like having everything.  _If he'd let me give him a goodnight kiss, this whole thing would be almost painfully domestic. Perfect._

When Thomas wakes up the next morning, James is still asleep. They're not touching, no sleepy hugs or tangled legs, but James has one hand curled into a fist. Caught in that fist is the sleeve of Thomas's t-shirt.

 

"Let's not talk about last night," James says over breakfast.  _It was just too personal, too open, too much. Didn't feel like facts._

Thomas nods. "Good plan."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So apparently this is actually teaching people about art? Which is good, if an unconventional learning environment.
> 
> Comments make me smile whenever I see them!


	10. "Swans Reflecting Elephants" - Salvador Dali

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's on the peaceful side for Dali. Just blues and browns and creams.  
> And no matter which one you see at first glance, it's always hiding something.

It becomes a routine for them. The worse James gets, the harder it is for him to talk without coughing, the more time Thomas spends in his room. The first few days, they sit in there together, talking and reading and doing research. The first few days are quieter. They stay to their opposite sides of the room, James in the bed, Thomas at the desk. They read. They write. 

But James gets worse, and Thomas begins to leave only to get them food or medicine or more books. He's got a sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach that this isn't James's ordinary cold, and a sinkier feeling telling him that sticking James in bed and making him rest is only causing it to get worse.

"You shouldn't be in here so much," James says one morning through a cough. "I'll get you sick."

"Nah, no way. I have the immune system of a god, my man. Nothing gets me sick."

"If you say so."

James goes back to his book, coughing until his eyes water. Thomas goes back to googling the symptoms of bronchitis and pneumonia and all the other bad diseases. He wonders whether he should get James to a hospital. He keeps insisting he's fine, he's fine, it'll pass in a day or two. If it were anyone else, Thomas would have dropped them off at the hospital days ago and come back with a bouquet during visiting hours.

He's not sure he trusts anybody else, medical school be damned, with James.

Not Talking About It becomes a routine, too. "It" is what happens in the evenings, usually just past nine because poor James is too tired to stay up past that time. Thomas leaves, grabs pajamas for them both. They change in their separate corners of the room. Thomas shuts his eyes when he does so. Heaven knows he can't bear to keep them open, watch his friend's frame shaken with coughs without protective fabric in between. Then they both climb into bed, James on the right, Thomas on the left.

The light goes off. James sleeps. Thomas fucks around on his phone for a few hours and listens to James breathing beside him. He coughs when he's asleep, too.

And then they wake up and the light filters through the curtains - Thomas has noticed that, as it gets to be summer, the first thing the light hits every morning is the portrait James painted for him. Thomas spends five or ten minutes working himself up and slips out of bed before James gets the chance to wake up. He grabs comfy clothes (James is living out of his wardrobe now) and showers and goes somewhere to get them both breakfast.

By the time he gets back, James has showered and dressed and is coughing so hard he can't breathe, and they go right back to Not Talking About It.

Thomas fucking hates this routine.

 

"So I'd like to clarify that this is not a date," Alexander Hamilton says.

"You keep saying that," Aaron Burr points out. "I must admit, it's getting harder and harder to believe you."

"I know, I know. But I have an excuse."

"Oh?"

He pauses. "That's a lie. I don't have an excuse. Nothing's been stolen for a month now. I have nothing to write about - okay, no, that's also a lie, I still have so much to write about. Just nothing about that. I'm almost disappointed? Not really, because you'd have to be a real dick to steal a painting and I'm glad whoever's doing it has finally wised up, but still. Does sort of suck when you want an excuse to talk to someone."

"You could just call it a date. That's a decent excuse."

Alexander shakes his head. "Nah, see, but I'm also not dating Eliza Schuyler. You know her? Local artist, super cute? And I am not dating this guy John Laurens - he teaches art classes at the elementary school. And I am  _definitely_ not dating-"

Aaron holds up a hand. "How many people are you not dating?"

"Five. Counting you."

"Can't make up your mind?"

"I dunno if that's the issue. People tell me 'one thing at a time' a lot? But that's in the context of 'Hamilton, you're awful at taking one thing at a time,' which I can live with. Point being, I am not dating any of you. I just have shitty excuses."

"I think that word you're looking for is friendship," Aaron says with a wry smile.

Alex snorts. "Yeah, well, maybe. How gay are friends allowed to be?"

"Pretty gay," Aaron says. "Though at a certain point it tends to cross over into something else."

"You experienced with that point?"

"Maybe, maybe not."

"I fucking hate you."

"Perhaps that's why we're not dating."

 

James Madison has a very real illness. Symptoms include a hacking cough, weakness, fatigue, and chills that blankets alone can't seem to handle. It's a tragic situation to be in, and it's a one hundred percent bona fide sickness.

He might be playing up the symptoms just a little.

He's never enjoyed being taken care of up until this point. Then again, he's never been used to being taken care of either. When sick is more common than healthy, people tend to get used to coughing and sneezing and sniffling. They quit worrying about you. After that, you start worrying about yourself and don't expect anyone else to do it. You feel too big sometimes, like you're taking up too much time and space whenever you make a noise.

But people quit worrying. And that's just fine by James.

Thomas, though. Thomas hasn't quit worrying and it's been over a week. It was worst a few days ago, when James felt like absolute shit and woke up in the middle of the night in a panic. He hasn't had nightmares quite as bad as that, but Thomas has stayed with him. He hardly leaves, he brings him fresh supplies of food and books. When he opens his mouth, it's straight back to the lovable asshole side of him, the look-at-me side of him, but when he's quiet, James has never felt more appreciated.

So he maybe, just maybe, might be drawing this out longer than he needs to. He still does feel awful, he really does. But all the TLC seems to be helping, and it's clear to James that he's on the upswing and won't be able to stay in bed much longer. Besides, some part of him misses his quiet apartment and the smell of paint and the thrill of being in a museum after hours. But that can all wait awhile.

Just one more day.

Just until he can work up the courage to Talk About It.

 _I regret suggesting the lips-zipped policy,_ James thinks one evening, a little before nine, as Thomas reads him the Wikipedia page of a painting. It's a game they've developed over the past few days. Thomas omits the name of the painting and artist and they measure how long it takes for James to guess the correct one. His record is seven seconds.

"The painting," Thomas reads, "is from the artist's Paranoiac-Critical period. Painted using oil on canvas, it contains one of the artist's famous double-"

"'Swans Reflecting Elephants?'" James guesses.

"Ding! Almost beat your record, too. Eight seconds. You like Dali?"

James nods. "Some of it. Some of it makes me sick to my stomach to look at it, but I like 'Swans Reflecting Elephants.' It's on the peaceful side for Dali. Just blues and browns and creams, y'know?"

_And no matter which one you see at first glance, it's always hiding something. Appropriate for today. No matter what part of my life you look at or who else it's affecting, I'm hiding something. I don't know when I got this good at lying. I don't know how I feel about it._

"And which d'you like better, swans or elephants?"

"Swans," James says without hesitating.  _Jefferson's a swan_ , he thinks.  _Me, not so much._

Thomas winces. "Ooh, yikes. I am firmly on Team Elephant."

James wants to ask why that is, but he's cut off by a real coughing fit. He doesn't bother with an extension of this one. "Hey, Thomas?" he says.

"Mm-hm?"

"I've kind of been lying to you."

Thomas's eyebrows fly up, but he doesn't look up from his phone, still searching for another painting. "And in what way have you been lying to me? Don't tell me you don't like my casserole. That's my great-grandma's recipe."

Rolling his eyes, James says, "No. For the past day or two, I... haven't been as sick as I've made myself out to be. I'm a lot better. We can get back to work."

"You tryna tell me you've been wasting my time?"

James swallows. "Yes."

Thomas gestures for him to scoot over and climbs in next to him. "Cuz that's bullshit, man. You deserved some goddamn rest. I mean, what're we gonna do, anyway? Paintings don't have legs, they'll still be there in the morning. My time has not been wasted, and I hope to god you don't think yours has either. It's been - well, not a great week, because I've been worrying my fucking head off about you - but it's been restful. That ain't a waste of time."

"You were worried," James repeats.

"Dude. I have spent ninety percent of my time in here making sure you didn't asphyxiate. I've been a tad bit worried."

"Okay, but, you were worried."

Thomas does something unprecedented. James doesn't know whether he wants to Talk About this or just memorize the feeling and know he'll be able to remember this whenever he wants. Thomas puts a hand on top of his hand, both of them resting on the comforter, and squeezes, just once.

"I was worried," he confirms. "Go to sleep, man. We'll get a move on in the morning."

James nods. He feels himself starting to drift off as soon as Thomas turns off the light. James yawns, but there's a thought hovering in his head that he needs to get out before he slips off into a dream.

"You're a swan," he mumbles.

"You're an elephant," Thomas replies.

James smiles sleepily. 

_He gets it. You get it, Thomas. I love you._

 

James's phone lights up in the dark a little before midnight, and Thomas turns over to avoid looking at it. In the past several days, he's returned to one topic every night around this time. He still doesn't know whether Dolley ever texted James back, but he's kept that text sitting in his phone.

The one about needing romantic advice.

He's gone through every one of their mutual acquaintances in his head, weighing the interactions he's seen them have for some sign of... something. The issue, like many of his other issues, lies in the fact that he doesn't know what "something" looks like on James. Does he get nervous? (Most likely; poor guy gets nervous easily.) Does he flirt? (Less likely, still possible.) Does he blush? (Shit, that'd be cute.)

Thomas just doesn't know.

It occurs to him that it might be someone he's never even met. Someone James hasn't seen since college, or a childhood friend, or someone he met online, or anybody. The only small comfort in the idea of Thomas not knowing the person would be that, at the very least, it's not Alexander Hamilton.

_If it wasn't for the whole "not into women" thing I'd place my bets on Dolley in a heartbeat. But as it is, I don't know. I hate not knowing._

Tonight, once he's run through the list and tentatively discounted them all - just like he has every other night - Thomas allows himself to indulge for a moment. He imagines what life would be like if everything was just a little bit sideways. If they Talked About It, if James's text had been about him instead of to him, if and if and if.

"You always want what you can't have," Thomas says to the darkness.

James, in his sleep, rolls over and grabs at the hem of Thomas's shirt, curling into an even tighter ball and making tiny, sleepy noises. Thomas, despite himself, smiles and pats his sleeping partner on the head.

"What you can't have," he whispers, echoing himself.

The next morning, he tells James that he's calling Aaron Burr.

"Why?" James asks, raising an eyebrow. Thomas wishes they'd waited to have this conversation until after James changed out of Thomas's clothes.

"Because Max Ernst has been done for awhile now, right?"

"Right."

"We're breaking into MoMA, baby."

 

James Madison showers and makes breakfast and eats that breakfast. He goes home. He trusts Thomas to call Aaron and arrange the details. Right now, James is feeling the scratchy need to be alone, and Thomas doesn't appear to blame him.

"We've been in constant company for what, a week now? Go enjoy your alone time. I'll let you know once we've got a plan together."

He's home now, painting. James Madison is not an abstract kind of guy, and before today, he hasn't done anything beyond mild distortion. Maybe it's the stretched-out, illusory Dali in his head getting to him, but James's shapes are barely recognizable today. His circles are lopsided and the limbs of his figures stretch and distort and the whole thing is a blur of blue and brown and cream. He turns his music up high and presses his earbuds in tight.

James's whole world is this canvas.

When he finishes, a few hours later, the fastest he's ever painted something, he seals it right away. The colors smudge somewhat under the varnish. It doesn't matter to him. At the edges, the painting consists of nothing but panels of color. The closer to the middle, the more the panels fracture and distort and coalesce and overlap. If one squints the right way, one can just make out two figures in the middle, reaching but not touching.

They don't quite look like figures though. James thinks there's a good case to be made for tree branches or something similarly twisty.

On a whim, he doesn't wait for the varnish to dry before adding a second coat. The distortion amplifies. The varnish drips, and he wipes it off at the bottom. The whole painting shines, and what little light catches it makes certain parts indistinguishable due to the glare.

 _If this were hanging in a museum,_ James thinks,  _I'd steal it._

He snorts at himself.  _It's terrible that that's my new metric for how much I like my own work. Can't wait to show this to Thomas._

As if on cue, his phone buzzes. It's a text from Thomas informing him that he's coming to dinner and bringing Aaron Burr along, and is he sure Max is ready, because they're jumping right into planning mode.

James informs him that Max is looking forward to it. He neglects to mention that he's looking forward to it.

He checks to see if his varnish has dried and murmurs, "We're breaking into MoMA, baby."

Maybe if he says it enough times, this will feel like real life.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next time: The Ultimate Heist, feat. Aaron Burr.
> 
> Comments, as you know, are The Best.


	11. "Starry Night" - Vincent Van Gogh

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's blue and gold and black, but those colors don't describe it quite right in the yellow moonlit darkness. It's deeper, quieter, and it suggests some great, mysterious adventure waiting to unfold beneath starlight.  
> James can only hope this adventure includes him.

Thomas and Aaron show up midway through the afternoon. They come into his apartment together, a  unit, both sharply dressed and dark-skinned and professional-looking. James, on the other hand, is still wearing a borrowed pair of Thomas's sweatpants which might be his now.

But they're still two separate units, looking more like satellites trapped in the same orbit than one single shuttle. Aaron trails a bit after Thomas, letting his swagger lead the way. Of course. Thomas Jefferson is a way-leading kind of guy. Aaron watches him walk with something akin to admiration in his eyes. His steps are more measured than Thomas's, more deliberate, but there's a hint of confidence in that walk that James doesn't remember from the Met. It's new. Though James knows he's not a talented reader of people, he can tell that Aaron's whole face says  _I wanna be a part of this._

James smiles at him.  _Me too, buddy. Me too._

In that moment, he likes Aaron Burr a little bit more.

"Honey, I'm home!" Thomas calls theatrically into the apartment.

James, who is two feet away from him, raises his eyebrows. "Why, I never. If I'd known you were bringing company I would have tidied up."

"I'm sorry, darling, it was a last-minute thing. He's a friend from work."

Letting out a sigh that's more dramatic than James expected from himself, he turns to Aaron. "Anyway, shall we get down to business?"

Aaron nods. "That would be nice."

They get down to business. James does far more listening than talking. Thomas, after all, is full of good ideas at all times, and Aaron seems eager to share his input, to establish himself as a real part of the gang. There's no way James is about to stand in the way of someone becoming a real part of the gang.

Even if he feels like Aaron's taking over his role a little.

When they're down to business, normally Thomas does a lot of the talking, but James has such a good head for logistics that he sticks in bits and pieces of information whenever the thought strikes him. And then Thomas gives him that fantastic look, the  _thank you_ smile that makes James want to become a puddle at his feet. But tonight it's Aaron with the logistics, Aaron saying filler fluff just to add to the conversation.

 _But I can't blame him,_ James thinks as he excuses himself to go to the bathroom.  _If I had a shot at Thomas Jefferson, any shot at all, I'd pounce on it. Aaron's the kind of guy to take advantage of the best opportunity he gets. That's why he works at the Met despite not loving art. That's why he's teaming up with us despite working at the Met. And that's why he's eager to please Thomas despite..._

_Despite nothing. Not even me._

When James returns from the bathroom, Thomas is in the middle of a sentence. "...whether we can trust you with this. I trust you more than James does. Which means I'm not the deciding vote here."

James swallows.  _Despite me?_

"I say we give him a shot," James says from the doorway. "Simple stuff at first. That works, we'll take you with us, Aaron. Sound good?"

Aaron shrugs. "I'd like to think I've proven myself plenty, but your discretion is understandable. I'll head to MoMA tomorrow and scope everything out, including Max Ernst. They'll let me go everywhere; they know I'm from the Met."

Thomas nods and says, "Got it. Hey, you wanna stay for dinner? It's late, and Jemmy's one hell of a good cook."

"I'm okay," James interjects.

"He's brilliant."

"I should go," Aaron says. "I'd love to say, but I've got a... not a date, as he keeps insisting... a thing to get to. Thank you, though. Should I just text you, Thomas, to keep planning? James, I don't know your number yet."

James is about to give it to him, but Thomas says, "I'll just forward your messages to him. Thanks so much, Burr. Have a good night, now."

Aaron Burr departs.

"Am I not allowed to give him my phone number?" James asks, one eyebrow raised.

"You don't trust him. Why would you give him the means to contact and/or trace you?" Thomas raises an eyebrow of his own, mirroring James's face. "Just looking out for number one, my man."

"You do know that's supposed to mean 'looking out for yourself,' yeah?"

"I know, I know. But in this case, not so much. Now you gonna make me dinner or should I go grab some takeout? Because I've missed your cooking while you were all laid up in bed giving me fucking heart palpitations whenever you coughed."

"I'm cooking, I'm cooking. What do you want?"

"Chef's choice."

James grins. "Based on what I have in the house? Kraft mac and cheese it is."

Thomas rubs his hands together. "Something I know how to cook! James, do you realize what this means? I can cook for you! Like an actual fake boyfriend should!"

"I forgot about the fake boyfriend thing," James lies.

"I never did," Thomas says.

And huh, James isn't sure how he feels about that, but it definitely isn't bad. It's a warm feeling, the kind that bubbles around your stomach and chest and makes you feel like you're sinking into something. Quicksand, a hot bath, love, whatever. James doesn't dwell on it, because to bring feelings into this is to lose this. He tells Thomas he's got a painting he needs to check on (not a lie) and that he trusts that dinner will be delicious (a complete lie, given Thomas's cooking ability).

He escapes and tries not only to Not Talk About It, but also to Not Think About It.

The first one goes just fine. He's alone, and James doesn't often talk to himself. The second one goes terribly. James thinks an awful lot.

 

Over mac and cheese (which, in Thomas's opinion, is delightful), James asks him, "So what do you think of Aaron Burr?"

His tone is light and casual. James is never light nor casual.

"He's... fine..." Thomas says, unsure of what answer will maintain his favor with James. "Overeager, if you ask me, but willing to help and a quick thinker. We can definitely use his help, at the least. I dunno, though, man. You?"

"He likes you," James replies, not answering the question. "But I agree. He'll be helpful. I don't mind him nearly as much as you think I do."

Thomas grins. "I'm never wrong," he says. "You know that."

"Well I wouldn't say you're right, either. The mac and cheese is good, by the way."

"I know, right? It might be my favorite food ever."

They eat in a companionable silence, Not Talking About It. That won't stop Thomas from thinking about it, though.  _He's only half wrong. James is worried about Aaron for some reason, more than he lets on, but I'm worried too. No way I'm letting him too near James. Not because I think he's gonna betray us or whatever. He won't. No matter what James thinks, he won't. But Aaron... he's smooth. He's smart. He's too fucking clever for anybody's own good._

_If James takes a shine to him, Heaven only knows whether I'll have a shot._

Thomas snorts.

"Something funny?" James asks.

_Yeah, me having a shot with you. Me swearing not to bring feelings into this and then doing nothing but have feelings for you, man._

"Nothing at all," Thomas says with a smile he knows is charming. "So, we still in planning mode? Because there are a few things we didn't bring up when Aaron was still here. First of all, what're we doing with Max Ernst? The real Max Ernst."

"Selling it?" James asks.

"Why?"

"Because I've built up a reputation - well, not me, some middlemen I'm friendly with - as selling real works of art. It'll be nice to slip something that's actually real in there every once in a while, just to ensure that even if someone's careful about it and finds out how many fakes have gone up, there are real ones to enforce my credibility. Besides, then I won't have to leech off of your money."

Thomas rolls his eyes. "Mads, you're not a leech. I'm just both incredibly generous and incredibly rich. Great combination, if I say so myself. So, we're agreed on selling Max Ernst. Great. How long d'you think MoMA will take to realize it's a fake?"

James makes a face. "I wish I knew. A week? A month? Twenty-eight years? I don't have any idea, Thomas."

"Well it hardly matters. They haven't caught us yet and we've never even left a fake behind. Besides, with your talent, could be years before they even catch on."

"You're really laying on the flattery tonight, huh?"

Thomas smiles, but it's not intentional. He just feels it happening to his face, the way it does whenever he looks at James, or thinks about James, or talks to James. "Like I said. Just looking out for number one."

 

Aaron Burr is just excited to be here.

 

The heist feels wrong to James, with three of them here, but in a way he could get used to. It'd be easier to get used to if he didn't see the specters of Aaron's admiration for Thomas at every turn.

Still, he's in MoMA after hours and the full moon is lighting up the museum from behind wispy clouds. The scudding clouds are yellowish-brown, as they often are in the city, and the moonlight shifts as they shift. Everything seems to be full of swirling patterns and pinpricks of reflection.

James has Max Ernst in his bag, and he's not moving. It's not that he's forgotten what they came here for. He literally couldn't. It's just that he's standing mere inches away from "Starry Night," and the day he doesn't stop to admire a Van Gogh is the day he dies.

"Starry Night" is another one of those paintings that it seems almost cliche to enjoy. And in the daylight, maybe James wouldn't be so enraptured. But it is night, and the shifting cloud cover makes the whole of MoMA into an extension of this painting. James has never felt so wholly a  _part_ of a piece of art as he does now, except perhaps for when he's painting the art himself.

"It sure is something," Thomas murmurs next to him. James hardly even notices.

It's blue and gold and black, but those colors don't describe it quite right in the yellow moonlit darkness. It's deeper, quieter, and it suggests some great, mysterious adventure waiting to unfold beneath starlight. James, within the painting, can only hope this adventure includes him.

He thinks it might.

"You feel it too?" James whispers, suddenly overcome with the need to know whether Thomas is a part of the painting, whether they are still connected, whether their ideas still blend into each other like the painting into the rest of the museum.

"I feel it, man. It's everywhere."

_How does he always understand?_

Aaron clears his throat. "Gentlemen, I hate to interrupt, but unless we're stealing 'Starry Night...'"

James looks at Thomas, feeling his own face mirror the question.  _Should we?_ But Thomas shakes his head.

"No," he says. "Let this one stay. Taking it would be like tearing out a section of the canvas. And that's just a dick move. C'mon, let's go find 'The Hat Makes The Man.'"

James and Thomas let their recent coconspirator lead the way deeper into the museum, since Aaron seems to know MoMA's layout better than either of them. Max Ernst is hanging in a rather forgotten corner, and it's no trouble at all to replace the collage with its exact copy. The trio steps back to admire their work.

"Good?" Aaron asks.

"Good," James and Thomas echo at the same time. James smiles.

"Let's bounce," Thomas says, whirling on his heel all of a sudden.

They re-arm the security system. They turn the cameras back on. They make sure everything is exactly as they left it. Once they close the front door behind them - there's something that satisfies James so much about entering through the front door - they pile their gloves into Thomas's bag and go their separate ways, all three of them, each to their own apartment. They wave goodbye as they part.

James's first move when he reaches his apartment is to make sure the varnish has finally dried, both coats of it, on his most recent original.

His second move is to panic when he realizes it's gone.

 

"Dick move, Thomas," he mutters to himself as he fights the sticky summer air toward his apartment. His bag is heavy, weighted down with a painting he stole. Not from a museum. From his best friend.

He saw it when James was washing dinner dishes. If it were anybody else, he would have just asked for it, and if it were anybody else, he would have gotten what he asked for it a heartbeat. But it's James, and the longer they spend together, the clearer it becomes that he's not anybody else. Thomas did what came naturally and stole it.

It's beautiful. He likes it. It feels like James in a way that Thomas isn't sure makes sense. James isn't a chaotic human being. He's not abstract, he doesn't dissolve or blur or break apart. Thomas loves him for that, because he himself is prone to doing all of those things if it'll get him a smile or a chuckle or a kiss.

Looking at the painting feels like knowing what James is thinking as easily as breathing. The way it fuzzes back into clarity at the edges feels like the connection they have (or maybe that Thomas is mostly imagining), the reason they're such close friends, the reason Thomas is so goddamn in love with him. He had to have the painting.

So he stole it.

He's thinking of hanging it in his roomful of art, perhaps even replacing "Artist" in the place of honor.

Thomas walks on into the night, and though no stars are visible beyond the New York City haze of light pollution, he still feels like he's stepped inside a Van Gogh painting.

"And it's still pronounced Van  _Goff_ , thank you very much," Thomas mutters to nobody.


	12. "Pygmalion and Galatea" - Jean-Léon Gérôme

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The composition of it is beautiful, the whole painting teetering on an anticipatory edge. The colors, dark neutrals, make the stark sculpture white all the more clear.  
> It feels like a fantasy and a reality, magic made of oil paint and yet rendered like a photo.

"And I don't know how it could have gone missing. Paintings don't have legs - you said that one time - so it's not as though it could have walked off. I'm at the end of my rope here, Thomas. Do you have any idea where it could be?"

Though they're talking on the phone, Thomas can practically see James pacing around his apartment. He doesn't always pace, only when he's got something he needs to work through that he's  _this_ close to figuring out.

"Maybe you need to step away for awhile?" Thomas suggests. "Could be it's hiding in plain sight and you've been looking too long to see it. Come over for awhile, then keep looking when you get back."

"You're right. I'll be there in ten. Oh, I have something to show you. Bye."

James hangs up before Thomas gets a goodbye in. He does that a lot. It's not out of rudeness - he just thinks so fast, often even faster than Thomas, that once a thought is complete he's already onto the next one. Said goodbye? Great. That means hang up the phone and get a start on the million other brilliant things locked up inside his head.

Thomas knows a lot of brilliant people - he considers himself to be one of them - but no one quite like James. There's Alexander Hamilton, who could probably learn anything you put in front of him in one day and write a treatise about it in half that time. Still not smart enough to know when to shut the fuck up, though. There's Aaron Burr now, who knows so much and knows how to hide that fact. He, too, seems like a fast learner, but his eagerness to be liked gets in his own way.

 _Hell, there's me,_ Thomas thinks.  _Intelligent beyond measure, loved by all who meet me, holder of knowledge from all the freaking books I own. By any metric, brilliant. But too caught up in always wanting what I can't have._

But James? He's a flawed person, Thomas knows this, because everyone is flawed. But unlike everybody else, James's flaws don't seem to detract from his brilliance. They're just a part of it, part of him, they just enhance him. Shy and stubborn and too damn resistant to Thomas's advances? Yes. And he's the better for it.

_Fuck. Fuck this. Maybe I should get out a little more, try to get over him. If it were anyone else, I would have moved way the fuck on by now. But damned if I wouldn't rather stay here and keep pining like an idiot._

There's an insistent whining coming from near the front door to the apartment. He buzzes James in and waits.

For a few moments, he's committed to trying to get over James. But then he walks through the front door wearing that nice pair of jeans that Thomas fucking loves on him and one of Thomas's old t-shirts that's stretched a little over his wide shoulders. Just like it always does, Thomas's plan flies out the window.

"Well don't you look lovely today," he teases.

James shrugs. "If you ever want your clothes back, let me know. I swear you've doubled the size of my wardrobe."

"Which means there was some trouble with your previous wardrobe's size," Thomas says. "Keep it. It suits you."

James quirks an eyebrow. "Was that a Star Wars reference?"

"Wait, shit, was it? I'm so pissed, I haven't gotten to see the new one yet. Is it out on DVD yet? We oughta watch it."

"I'm not sure. You could always just pirate it," James says.

"Dude, no way. I ain't pirating."

There's a beat and a half of silence before James practically doubles over giggling. Thomas loves his laugh, which comes often but never for very long. It's like a shooting star. But now James can't seem to stop laughing, and that infectious giggle of his catches Thomas too, 'til they're both leaning up against the couch for support. Thomas can't even tell what's so funny yet, not when James's laugh is driving him to distraction.

"You are an infamous art thief, Thomas Jefferson," he finally says. "And your reaction to suggesting we pirate Star Wars..."

Thomas nods, renewing his chuckles. "What?" he manages. "It's totally different."

"It really isn't," James says.

Thomas regrets even considering distancing himself from this.  _Doesn't even matter that I'll never have him. Or rather, it does, but it's okay. I wouldn't trade this for anything in the whole fucking world._

 

 

It's not even afternoon yet when James shows up at Thomas's house. It only takes a few minutes of convincing him before they've hooked Thomas's computer - his shitty personal one that's half-full of viruses - to the TV and are streaming a pirated Star Wars on the screen.

What a way to spend a morning.

James hardly pays attention for the first twenty or so minutes of the movie, even as Thomas watches, enraptured. He's trying to figure out if there's a natural-seeming way to get closer to Thomas through the course of the movie.

 _What happened to me not enjoying physical contact?_ James wonders. Thing is, he already knows the answer.  _I'm not in love with anyone but Thomas, so I've got a small sample size in the enjoying-physical-contact area. But beyond that, I trust him. I'd trust him with anything._

_Well, almost anything._

It takes him another ten minutes, but he ends up leaning against Thomas's arm.

"Hey, d'you mind moving for a sec, man?" Thomas asks.

 _Well that lasted all of thirty seconds._ James leans away, prepared for the worst, but Thomas only stretches his arms up and wraps one around James, pulling him back in. He's resting against his side now.

"Much comfier," Thomas says.

James is panicking a little inside his head, pressed against Thomas Jefferson as he is, but he also is much more comfortable now. He trains his eyes on the TV screen and attempts to focus on Star Wars instead of the war in him. He does his best to Not Think About It. That gets harder and harder the longer he tries.

_Would it really be so ridiculous for him to be into me? I mean, we're on his couch watching a movie together and snuggling. Which, on the surface of it, seems promising. But at the same time, it really would be so ridiculous. Thomas Jefferson is so brilliant and beautiful and vivacious... he's an artist. Everything he does. And he can have anyone. And on top of all that, he hasn't tried to kiss me or anything yet. He really seems like the kind of guy who tries to kiss people he likes._

James can't stop Thinking About It.

After Star Wars, Thomas gently wriggles out from under James to stand up and stretch. "What say you to lunch?" he asks. "I can grab us something from that Korean place down the street if you don't feel like cooking."

"Perfect," James agrees.

"So I'm assuming the bulgogi for you?"

"You know me so well."

Once Thomas leaves, James queues up A New Hope - might as well make a real marathon of it - and decides to wander the apartment. Ever since he quit being so sick, they've been spending more time at James's apartment, and he's missed seeing the art here. The apartment is a museum in its own right, and James wonders offhand if Thomas has ever charged admission for a look around.

He ends up at Thomas's roomful of art and makes a circuit of it, glancing at all his favorites. "Artist," his "Artist," has been moved from the last time he saw it, and he touches a finger lovingly to the blot of paint at the end of the nose.

There must be a rotating selection of paintings in here, because James doesn't remember seeing  "Pygmalion and Galatea" in here last time. Jean-Leon Gerome is not an artist he thinks a lot about, but today he's entranced by the painting. The composition of it is beautiful, the whole painting teetering on an anticipatory edge. The colors, dark neutrals, make the stark sculpture white all the more clear. The gradient of Galatea's skin, fading from marble-white to living-tan, reminds James of something he can't quite put his finger on.

It feels like a fantasy and a reality, magic made of oil paint and yet rendered like a photo. James spends a long time staring up at the Gerome before he moves on to complete his circle around the room.

The very next painting he stumbles upon stops him yet again. He painted it.

It's the one missing from his apartment. The one, he realizes now, must have been stolen.

Despite himself, James starts chuckling.  _This must be how the museums feel,_ he thinks.

 

"So." Thomas hears James say it the second he opens the door. "Do you want to talk about the fact that my missing painting is hanging in your art room."

"Honestly? No." Thomas drops the Korean food on the kitchen counter and begins rummaging through the cabinets for plates.

"But will you?"

"Anything for you, man," Thomas says, a winning smile on his face despite the situation. "So, look. It was dumb of me to steal it. You can have it back if you want it. Obviously, given that it's yours. But I really wanted it, and I didn't wanna be like, 'hey, Mads, give me that.' So I went for what I do best and stole it."

"Is this revenge for me pretending to be sicker than I was?"

"It can be. But not just that. I just... I had to have that painting."

James accepts his plate of takeout. "Why, may one ask?"

"Because... fuck, I dunno, man, just because. Something about it just hit me like a freight train, and I wanted to keep looking at it. Whole painting reminds me of you in some ways, which is weird cuz it's chaotic and you're not, at all. But it's art, obviously, and I like having art, and I like being able to look at art any time I want it, and I like that painting more than a lot of things. Y'know how, in MoMA, it felt like 'Starry Night' was everywhere? I kinda felt like part of your painting in the same way."

James nods thoughtfully. "You can just ask next time," he says through a bite of food.

"Gotcha. I will say I felt a little bad as soon as I did it. Like the kid on the playground swiping your backpack cuz I have a crush on you."

Thomas fights the urge to cover his own mouth.  _Don't. Bring. Feelings into this._

James raises an eyebrow but says nothing. He eats his food in silence. That's almost worse, and Thomas silently wills him to say something. Maybe he thought it was a joke. Maybe not. Thomas has always prided himself on knowing when to stop.

"I mean, you'd think I'd do better than that, suave and charming as I am," he says with a grin. "But I swear, second I get around you I turn to mush."

James's other eyebrow shoots up, but then his phone buzzes and he holds up a hold-that-thought finger. "Hey, Dolley," he says into the phone. "I'm in the middle of lunch, but - shit, John did that? Hold on."

He covers the receiver and turns to Thomas with a pleading look. "John walked out because she bought a painting they, quote, don't need. Can we have a few minutes?"

Thomas nods. "Sure, yeah. Anything for you, man."

James looks almost pained, but he uncovers the receiver and wanders into the other room to keep talking to Dolley.

Thomas leans his head against the fridge and wonders whether or not he just fucked up. If there's one thing that would make his life easier, it would be being able to figure out what James Madison is thinking.

He hears snatches of conversation, not the actual words, just the occasional low rumble of James's voice followed by periods of silence or sympathetic coos. He wonders how bad walking out is for Dolley's husband, if it's something he does all the time or whether it's a terrible sign. Dolley could definitely do better than him. Thomas thinks back to the wedding, to dancing with James. He still remembers the song they danced to (it comes on the radio sometimes and never fails to make him smile), but alarmingly, he's beginning to forget exactly how James felt against his hands, exactly what he looked like in the flashing lights of the wedding reception.

Thomas is dying to dance with him again.

He slips off to his roomful of art and sits down in his chair, with a direct line of sight to James's painting. He gets up after a few seconds and prowls the room for a different painting to look at. He can't think about James's art right now.

Thomas settles on "Pygmalion and Galatea," one he hung up just recently despite having owned it for almost a year now. It was never his favorite, but for some reason he glanced at it again the other day and was overcome with admiration for the painting. Despite it being oil on paper, and despite one of its subjects being carved from literal marble, the kiss it depicts feels so spontaneous and joyful.

He's always liked spontaneous and joyful, always endeavored to be that himself. Then again, he wouldn't describe James with either of those adjectives. He's more of the carved-out-of-marble type.

Still, if the painting is anything to go by, the two aren't mutually exclusive.

"One of my favorites," says a quiet voice behind him. Thomas jumps. He gets a sudden sense of deja vu, back to a party months ago when he said the same thing to James.

"How's Dolley?" he asks.

"Better now. John Todd's a complete dick. I wanted to ask, since when do you have 'Pygmalion and Galatea?'"

"I've had it for awhile now. I've taken a shine to it lately, though."

"I can see why," James says with a nod. "So. Mind if I ask you something?"

 

He's trying not to fidget, trying not to throw his weight from foot to foot in an effort to take up less space. For the millionth time, James feels too large for this situation, like the art on the walls will close in on him. He wants to be smaller.

"Sure, yeah, shoot," Thomas says. His voice makes it sound like James is actually going to shoot at him.

"You were messing with me earlier, right?" James asks. "The turning-to-mush thing?"

"Uh, why?"

"Because you don't... because," James says. He's not sure how to get his thoughts out through his mouth.  _Because you keep flirting with me and I'm having a hard time dealing with it not being real. Because you don't seem like the kind of guy who'd be okay with me bringing feelings into this. Because if you were messing around and I don't realize you were, I lose all of this._

"Because I don't what?"

James swallows. "Just tell me you were joking, Thomas."

His expression makes a slow swing from confusion, all upturned eyebrows and wide eyes, to pure defiance. It's a look that suits Thomas well. Defiance fits right on his face. "No," he says.

"No?"

"No, man, I'm not gonna tell you I was joking. I'm not." The defiance flickers out for a moment, replaced by regret. "Shit, I told myself I wasn't gonna bring feelings into this. Too late now. Point is I'm never joking about this shit, not with you, Mads. Did you think I was? Did you  _hope_ I was?"

James has never been more confused in his life.

"I thought you were," he says. "I didn't think it meant anything. I... I'm so confused."

"I am too," Thomas says. "Feeling kinda mushy here."

"Same here. It's funny you should say 'not bringing feelings into this,' though. That's what I've been telling myself, too."

Thomas's eyebrows shoot up. "As in, you have feelings to bring into this?"

"Mm-hm."

"Well, you gonna share those feelings with the class?"

James takes in the impossible scene before him. There is no music. There are no fancy lights. There is no dance, no magic. It's just a room full of art, Thomas Jefferson included. There's an expression of hope on his face that James realizes he's seen, many times before, without ever knowing what it meant. He's still not quite certain it means what he thinks it means, but 'mushy' isn't a bad place to start.

"I happen to love you quite a bit, Thomas," he says.

"Oh, thank God. I thought you'd end up having a thing for Burr," Thomas says. "But no, I'm the lucky winner, aren't I?"

James laughs. "Lucky's a relative term. And you?"

"Loved you from the day I met you, Mads. I could go on forever about why, but frankly I'm a bit annoyed that I'm not already kissing you."

James spreads his hands. "I'm not stopping you."

The last thing he sees before he closes his eyes is "Pygmalion and Galatea," over Thomas's shoulder. James kisses Thomas Jefferson and feels the warmth of the man against him, this perfect man, too good to be true, going from marble to skin under his hands.

James smiles.

_Could be it's hiding in plain sight and you've been looking too long to see it._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I strongly encourage you to Google this painting. And then imagine how our heroes would look in that same pose.
> 
> Comments and questions are 100% my favorite part!


	13. "Flaming June" - Sir Frederic Leighton

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The colors are soft, the woman the painting depicts is long-haired and sleeping, her dress like crepe paper around her, more delicate than a beam of morning sun.  
> Thomas, too, is as peacefully asleep as "Flaming June."

His hands are cold. James puts a hesitant hand to Thomas's cheek, and Thomas shivers because his hands are  _freezing_. But everything else is so warm right now that the chill is almost a relief.

Kissing James Madison is different than he imagined, which seems improbable, given how many different ways he's imagined this playing out. It's slower and a little more awkward and so,  _so_ much more perfect. His lips are a little chapped. He kisses like he doesn't want to mess anything up, so he goes slow, carefully keeping the hand on Thomas's cheek in place as he threads his fingers into Thomas's shirt collar. Thomas feels him tug a tiny bit closer.

After a few moments, James pulls away looking nervous. And small.

"Was that okay?" he asks.

Thomas snorts. "That was better than just about anything, ever."

"I can't believe you'd say that right after watching Star Wars. I'm almost offended."

"Kiss me again, you gigantic nerd."

The second time is better than the first.

The third time is better than the second.

By the fourth time, they're both seated in Thomas's gigantic comfy chair, and James is on Thomas's lap because that's the only way he can actually reach his mouth, and they've sped up the rhythm until it feels a little feverish. Thomas decides that this is his favorite time so far. He grabs at James's shirt - his shirt? - the shirt that James is wearing, but James freezes. Every muscle in his body seems to be tense.

"Too much too fast," he says by way of explanation.

"Oh, fuck, I am so sorry, man. You wanna stop? We can stop."

"No, it's fine, just... not that. Not yet. Not that I haven't pictured it a million times, but... not yet. I'm sorry."

Thomas squeezes his wrist. "You don't need to be sorry, man. I get it. We'll go slow. Cool?"

"Yeah, I'm cool. You wanna move this back to the living room? I had A New Hope all ready to go before-"

Nodding, Thomas presses at James's shoulders until he stands up off his lap. "Sounds like a plan. I don't know how I'm gonna be able to concentrate, though. Now that kissing you's a thing I'm not gonna stop doing it, ever. You thought we were gonna steal some more paintings? Wrong. I'm just gonna kiss you in museums after dark and then we'll leave."

"I'm not opposed to that," James says, taking a seat on the couch. "That reminds me."

"Oh, is this the thing you wanted to tell me on the phone?"

"Mm-hm."

James pulls out his phone, tapping at the screen a few times, before showing Thomas a row of numbers in a spreadsheet with one highlighted. It's a pretty large number. 

"Almost a hundred thousand dollars," James murmurs. "There was a bidding war over Max Ernst. But that's how much he sold for. Almost a hundred thousand dollars. I'm a little bit rich now, Thomas."

Thomas lets out a low whistle. "You sure are, my friend. Guess this means you're buying lunch from hereon in?"

"Don't think so. I'm saving this."

He chuckles. "Of course you are. C'mon, let's start A New Hope and then pay zero attention to the movie so I can keep kissing you."

"I swear you always know just what I'm thinking," James says, smiling.

"The fact that I haven't even kissed you for real, at all, ever, sort of proves that false," Thomas points out.

"Movie and kissing aren't gonna start themselves."

"Alright, alright."

 

"What I don't understand is why we needed to come back to my apartment to sleep," says a voice through the door. Hercules Mulligan covers his head with a pillow.

"Because," comes another, louder voice, "I needed to return your painting."

"Who's that at this hour?" his friend mumbles sleepily.

"My neighbor and his boyfriend. Sorry they're so loud," Herc tells Laf. "Believe me, I wish they'd shut up when they come in late. James is a nice dude, but I dunno about that boyfriend of his."

"What is his name?"

"Thomas. Jefferson, I think? I dunno, bro, I don't keep up on my neighbor's life story."

He hears a rustling in the dark near him. "Jefferson. I think I have been to a party or two of his. Man is an art collector. Very nice. He spent a few years in France, so of course I may be biased in his favor."

"Yeah, well. Everyone's an art lover around here."

More rustling. "Remind me why I am staying over on our day off? This couch is not very comfortable."

"Well, 'scuse me, princess," Herc grumbles. "I actually put a pea under your mattress. Can't believe it's taken you this long to notice."

Silence.

Hercules sighs. "Come on up here, Laf. Bed's big enough for both of us. Just don't make it weird."

Lafayette gasps in fake shock. "I would never! Now come, we ought to sleep. You have morning shift tomorrow."

"And you have afternoon shift, you lucky bastard."

"Shh. Do not let the... sleep bugs? Is that the-"

"Bed bugs, man. Don't let the bed bugs bite."

"That."

 

When James Madison wakes up, he's too hot. For one thing, there's summery sunlight streaming in between his blinds. The whole room is colored orange through the halfway-tinted light, as if there's a fire sweeping through his possessions starting from the window. For another thing, he's cocooned in his covers, the blankets trapping heat beneath them and making his bed into a little greenhouse.

Third, and most important, Thomas Jefferson is sleeping next to him. The orange light cuts a stripe across his face, from nose to lower lip, making him look a little tigerlike. His hair is wild, taking up all of his pillow and some of James's. He reminds James of "Flaming June," that beautiful Leighton piece that's also all orange. The colors are soft, the woman the painting depicts is long-haired and sleeping, her dress like crepe paper around her, more delicate than a beam of morning sun.

And Thomas, too, is as peacefully asleep as "Flaming June."

Generally when James wakes up, Thomas is already gone and they Don't Talk About It.

He marvels at the fact that they can not only Talk About It, they are It now.

James's skin is sticky with sweat from the heat, but even so, he wriggles his way closer to Thomas. He's got to make certain this moment sticks at the forefront of his head, make certain it gets filed under the same category as the dance and holding hands and all of yesterday's kisses.

After a few minutes of James doing nothing but watch Thomas, feeling the adoration written all over his own face, Thomas stirs and makes grumbling noises. "Good morning," he mumbles without ever opening his eyes.

"Good morning," James says. "You have plans for the day?"

"Give a guy a minute; I've been awake for all of four seconds, man."

"So that's a yes."

Thomas snorts and opens an eye. "Yeah, that's a yes. I figured we could do something fun and non-art-related today. Y'know, take a break. Celebrate Max Ernst being sold, or whatever. Just get away from stealing things all the goddamn time."

James snorts. "I was about to make a horrible joke."

"Uh, no, you have to make it now."

"You sure? It's bad."

"Positive, my man."

James opens his mouth, giggles, shuts his mouth again. "Okay, okay. 'Just get away from stealing things all the goddamn time,' you said. So my joke was, 'but you already stole my heart,' and I feel like an idiot for even  _thinking_ of it,but-"

He pauses himself, unable to talk over Thomas's laughter. The poor guy's laughing so hard he can't breathe, clutching at the pillows for something to hold on to. "Holy shit, Mads, that was even worse than I expected. My god, that's terrible. Shit, that's so terrible. Okay. Okay. I'm under control."

"That is the first and last theft pun for the day," James decrees.

"Agreed."

"So, once again, plans for the day? I know you've got something else."

"Well I had  _ideas_..."

James smiles. "So talk to me, Thomas."

"Hang on, hang on, I gotta get my phone out. I googled fun date ideas last night after you fell asleep."

For a moment, James finds himself incapable of speech. He's comfortable, if too hot, in his own room with his best friend beside him. A best friend who he can kiss any goddamn time he wants to. The sunlight is orange and Thomas is squinting at his phone screen and James wants this moment in a painting. He wonders whether "Flaming June" is still on display at El Museo del Prado, and if they can make the trip to Spain to steal it, or whether he'll have to paint this scene himself.

He's okay with either.

"Okay, so this one just says 'hang out with puppies?'" Thomas mutters. "Are we supposed to dognap some puppies to hang out with? I'm confused. And also dognapping is stealing, so that'd be off the table. What does 'hang out with puppies' even mean?"

"I dunno," James says. "You're the one with the phone. Pet store, maybe?"

"I am not taking you to a pet store for our first date!"

"Why's that?"

"Because, god help me, I will impulsively buy a puppy, Mads. I pride myself on my goddamn restraint but I  _will_ buy a puppy and we  _will_ have to take care of it, and I'm not sure we're ready for kids at this point in our relationship."

"We'd have to keep it at your place," James muses. "Paint fumes can't be good for young dogs, and besides, I wouldn't want it getting into my room in the first place. Just make sure you don't impulsively buy a cat. I'm allergic."

Thomas groans. "I'm taking you to a pet store for our first date, aren't I?"

"We can ask to hold all the animals."

"This is happening, isn't it?"

"Not if you don't want-"

Thomas turns over in bed so his whole body is facing James. He puts a hand against James's chest, and James swears the world stops for a second. "James," Thomas says.

"Yeah?"

"I am going to hold every single one of their lizards."

 

Thomas Jefferson is holding his hands cupped together so that the baby leopard geckos he's holding don't get out. James is peering over his shoulder at the tiny lizards. The woman helping them out - she seems to be the only employee at this pet shop right now, which is fine because James and Thomas are the only customers - is amused by their shared love for the baby lizards.

"I do believe," James says, "you've held every single one of their lizards."

"Mm," Thomas agrees, marveling at how small the lizards in his hands are. "Look at how cute they are, Mads. We could name all of them right now."

"But we won't, because when you name something, you get attached to it."

Thomas rolls his eyes. "Why you gotta be right all the time, man? C'mon, let's put these lizards back and go get ice cream or something before I purchase every single animal in the entire goddamn store."

They hold hands on their way out of the pet shop, and Thomas wonders when and how he got so lucky. He says something funny, and James kisses him on the cheek, and Thomas's heart speeds up and he almost misses the dog.

It's a tiny dog, can't be more than a few weeks old, with one ear sticking straight up in the air. The other ear is nowhere to be found. It's a little yellow dog, white spots of fur on its face. Thomas stops short, pulling James to a stop with him. Wordlessly, he points out the little dog in its slightly-too-small cage.

"Oh, no, Thomas," James says. It's halfhearted, like he wants this dog too.

"I know, I know," Thomas agrees, kneeling down in front of the cage. The dog comes right up, single ear flopping over as it pushes its face against the bars to nuzzle at Thomas's hand. James squats down too, and the dog goes back and forth between licking at each of their fingers.

It lets out a single, contended yip, and Thomas can see James's heart melting at the same time as his own.

"Oh, yeah," says the woman who works here, appearing behind them. "He came in a few weeks ago. Poor buddy doesn't have a name yet. Someone found him abandoned all alone. We think he was the runt of the litter, so the rest of his family just moved on."

Thomas looks at James, expecting to have to plead with him, only to find James already begging him with his eyes  _please can we get this dog._

"So I might have a name in mind already," Thomas says.

"As do I," James admits.

"I think it might be the same name. Ready, three, two, one..."

And when both of them say "Vincent" at the exact same time, Thomas knows he's gone.

The collar they pick out for Vincent is bright orange.

Outside the pet shop, Thomas kisses James, who's holding Vincent's leash. Vincent hops up on his hind legs and yips, like he doesn't quite know what's going on but sure is happy to be a part of it. Thomas kisses James again for good measure.

"I love you," he says.

James nods as if that makes perfect sense. "I love you too."

"Let's go home. We have a dog to take care of. Which I completely blame you for."

James shrugs. "Still a wonderful first date."

Vincent tugs at his leash, and Thomas laughs and follows the new dog. "I agree wholeheartedly."

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I just really wanted them to adopt a dog before everything goes downhill.
> 
> Comments and questions make me smile every time!


	14. "For An Anniversary" - Afro Basaldella

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He loves the lines of the painting, how there almost seems to be a sketch beneath the blocks of brown and lavender, how there almost seems to be a hand or the outline of two kissing figures, how the whole painting is almost.

"You have a dog now," Aaron observes as he sits down on Thomas Jefferson's couch.

"We have a dog now," James agrees. "His name is Vincent. As in Van Gogh."

"Because of the whole one-ear thing?"

"Mm-hm."

"Well," Aaron says, scratching the dog behind his ears, "he's a cutie."

Aaron always feels a little awkward when it's just him and James planning. He doesn't like to speak first, doesn't want to toss out an opinion without reading the room first. James just doesn't seem to like speaking. The only time he'll open up is when Thomas is around, even though he's always got brilliant ideas.

They wait more or less in silence, Vincent pacing the distance between them to get the maximum number of scratches from both parties.

"So," James says, "you wouldn't have come over if you didn't have someplace in mind."

"That's true," Aaron agrees. "I was thinking the Guggenheim. It'll be easier than MoMA, I think, and we pulled that off just fine. Don't want to do anything too dangerous now that you've got a little one to take care of."

He pats Vincent on the head and congratulates himself when James chuckles at the joke.

"Okay," James says. "Though we'll have to ask-"

As if on cue, the owner of this couch (and the rest of the apartment) walks into the room, wearing little in the way of clothing save for a wonderfully fluffy-looking towel. Aaron politely glances away, uncomfortable.

"Shit!" Thomas says. "Mads, you didn't tell me we had-"

"I tried," James replies. "You were singing too loudly in the shower to hear me."

"Man, why you gotta bring that up when we've got company?" He turns to Aaron. "So what's your idea? Wouldn't be here if you didn't have someplace in mind."

Aaron winces. "If you'd kindly put on some clothes, I'd be happy to tell you."

Thomas rolls his eyes and swans out of the room to put on some clothes. Aaron shares a sympathetic look with James, who seems torn between embarrassment and amusement. They sit in silence for a few more minutes. It's a more companionable silence now. When you share something with someone, even if it's just... something like this... it makes your silences more comfortable.

Still, desperately, Aaron wants to impress these two. He wants to be a part of the gang, these three musketeers.

But he's coming to understand that Thomas Jefferson and James Madison are a set. He is lucky just to be here, just to be a part of these schemes. They may need him sometimes. They will drop him or work around him if need be.

They will never drop nor work around each other.

Aaron sighs, settles back further into the couch, and sets Vincent on his lap.

He and James wait for Thomas to return, hopefully fully clothed.

 

"All I'm sayin' is," Thomas says, "it'd be easier to scope it out during a high-traffic time first." He's sitting cross-legged on the floor with a glass of lemonade balanced on his knee, managing to lean down and slurp through his straw without ever spilling it. He's awed at himself for doing it.

"I know, I know," Aaron says. "I swear I know the place though."

"As well as you know MoMA?" James asks.

"Not quite."

"Then we'll all go," James says. He doesn't often make the decisions for all of them, but when he does, it's always the best decision. Thomas, who hates surrendering the choices to anybody, fucking loves it when James makes the decisions for all of them.

"Great!" Thomas crows. "Let's call it Saturday morning. Isn't there some big thing going on Saturday morning?"

Aaron nods. "Special presentation. A Calder expert is coming in to talk about 'Red Lily Pads,' so there ought to be quite a few people showing up. Plenty of name recognition in the art world will be there. No one should notice the three of us."

"Sweet. So it's settled. Saturday morning."

They work late, the three of them forgoing dinner for planning. However much Thomas doesn't mind Aaron Burr, he's itching to get him out of his apartment the whole time. Most nights, he wants nothing more than a late night spent plotting every last detail of a heist. It's even more fun now that he doesn't work alone. But tonight, some part of him would prefer to be playing with the dog or reading in his room with James or playing that weird Wikipedia game they came up with.

 _What the hell is wrong with me?_ he wonders.  _Now is not the time for getting all domestic._

_But then again, why the hell not? James and I can live comfortably for the rest of ever on what I've got, not to mention his painting talents. We bought a dog. He could move in with me and we could turn the guest room into a place for him to paint. Sally wouldn't have to make all my meals because he actually enjoys cooking. We could go to art galleries during the day instead of sneaking in after hours._

_How am I supposed to get my kicks in, that epinephrine boost, if we're not pulling heists anymore?_

Thomas looks at James as he takes another sip of his lemonade. James has his head tilted slightly to the left, listening intently to something Aaron's saying. This wouldn't be funny, but Vincent is sitting on the floor doing the exact same thing. Thomas snorts.

_Fuck epinephrine. And fuck getting my kicks in, too. Whatever makes James happy, I'm happy._

Still, going domestic is one hell of a bombshell to drop. And they've already got a whole thing planned for Saturday. Better to keep that thought tucked in the back of his mind, avoid a weird confrontation until the time is better.

But as he and James and Aaron walk into the Guggenheim on Saturday morning, Aaron dressed recognizably as himself, James and Thomas in their nicest clothes (after all, today is a big event), Thomas lets his mind wander. He imagines, of all things, grocery shopping on a weekday morning. With James.

What could possibly make that better than stealing priceless works of art is beyond him.

But in his head, it is.

 

James slips off to scout first, leaving Thomas and Aaron to see some of the presentation. He's interested in Calder, too, but Thomas has always been more of an all-arts type. For James, it's the paintings that are the more important.

He figures out what he wants to steal on his first pass through the museum, but he figures he ought to check in with Thomas and Aaron before actually deciding on Afro's "For An Anniversary." He loves the lines of the painting, how there almost seems to be a sketch beneath the blocks of brown and lavender, how there almost seems to be a hand or the outline of two kissing figures, how the whole painting is  _almost_.

He thinks it must have been painted for a twenty-fourth anniversary, an almost anniversary.

Funny - before Thomas, James was never into almost.

He passes Aaron on his way back toward the Calder presentation, not acknowledging him in the slightest. Better if it's not obvious they know each other.

Thomas, though, he can't resist knowing.

James nudges Thomas's hand with his own. "Hey," he murmurs. "I lost you. I was just giving myself a tour of the museum."

"Oh? You see anything you like?"

"Mm-hm. You know 'For An Anniversary?'"

Thomas laces their fingers tight together and squeezes. "I think I've seen it once or twice. It's a nice one, that's for sure."

"Shh, we're interrupting her presentation."

And though they've said nothing of real substance, certainly nothing that could ever be used against them, they understand. We're stealing "For An Anniversary" whether Aaron likes it or not. End of discussion.

James starts running logistics in his head. It's a gigantic fucking painting, so they're gonna have to get creative. It's a good thing they'll have all three of them working on this one.

Two hours later, Aaron says, "I'm sorry, guys, but I can't do this one."

"What the hell, man?" Thomas demands. James places a soothing hand on his arm.

"Theodosia's camping trip with the Girl Scouts is this whole weekend and I promised I'd chaperone. I'm bringing the hot chocolate mix."

Thomas chills out immediately. James looks at him, and he nods. "It's for his daughter," Thomas murmurs.

"Right."

Aaron leaves shortly after that, ostensibly to go buy the hot chocolate mix for his daughter's camping trip. James wonders offhand what his life is like, having a daughter to put before everything else. Not that he'd ever want to take care of a child - at least, not at this stage in his life, not until he's at least had practice with Vincent - but it seems almost nice, in a way. Knowing that there is something which must take priority over all else.

James doesn't know what that something is. It used to be earning enough money to get by on. Before that it was college. For awhile it was his paintings. Now it might be the art thefts. More likely, it's Thomas now.

_And the funny thing is, I don't even mind._

 

 

Thomas and James kill time before the Guggenheim. They settled on a way to make the heist work hours ago, even with just the two of them, so now they've entered the phase of jumpy anticipation as the minutes tick by underwater, slower than time is supposed to go.

Even though he feels exasperated and nervous, Thomas loves this part. This is the part where they picture everything that could go wrong. This is the part they get to look back on later when they realize absolutely nothing has gone wrong.

Given that they have Vincent now, this seems to be the part where they take their dog for a run around the block to burn off some of the nervous energy they've been storing up all day.

"So," Thomas says through a granola bar - gotta keep the mental functioning up. "Why 'For An Anniversary,' exactly?"

James shrugs. "I like the painting. I would like it better on my wall."

Thomas snorts and says, "Mads, you've become a true thief. It does feel apropos, though, doesn't it? This is gonna be the first thing we steal together as, like, a legit couple as opposed to just partners."

"So you're saying we can steal 'For An Anniversary' for an anniversary."

"That is, as a matter of fact, exactly what I'm saying." He moves in to kiss James on the cheek, but he turns to catch it on the lips instead. Thomas kisses him and tries not to make it too obvious how overcome he is.

_Eh, fuck it. We're partners._

"I am so fucking lucky," Thomas says. "I'm serious, Mads, I must have done some seriously great shit in a past life to deserve you."

"Like what?"

"I dunno. Probably wrote the fuckin' Declaration of Independence or something," Thomas says with a wave of his hand. "Some great big important shit."

"Hmm, but living around that time means you probably would have owned slaves."

Thomas quirks an eyebrow. "Dude. Thomas Jefferson own slaves? Please."

"Yeah, guess it is far-fetched," James concedes, leaning his head against Thomas. "But then again, so is the idea that I'm the reward for past-life Thomas writing the Declaration of Independence."

" _Or something_ ," Thomas adds. "Could have been the Articles of Confederation or whatever they were called."

"Didn't those suck?"

"I dunno, man, this is why I didn't major in American history. Isn't it almost time to go?"

James's smile makes Thomas smile. "I think so. Heist clothes on?"

"Heist clothes on."

 

James knows exactly what they're doing here. Get in. Get out. It's just like all the others in that they plan to get-in-get-out as fast as possible, but stop to admire a little first. "For An Anniversary" looks different in the dark. The sketchy lines are less discernible, the whole painting a little more indistinct. The lighter pinks and purples are thrown into shadow, so the whole painting is darkened a few shades.

Oddly, it looks less like an almost in the dark. More like a  _something._

Thomas kisses James on the cheek. "I'll be right back," he says. "I dropped a glove one spiral down like an idiot. Get started, man."

"Will do. Love you. Be careful."

"Mads, I'm always careful."

Another kiss on the cheek and Thomas has slipped off into the darkness. James gets started on extricating the painting from its fastenings to the wall, knowing how this is supposed to go. He's silent. He's quick.

He's startled when he hears a voice that's not Thomas's.

 

Thomas fights the urge to swear aloud when he hears murmuring voices from the level above him. Voices, plural. That's never a good thing.

One of them is clearly James. He's memorized that speech pattern, that intonation, that timbre. You could play James Madison's voice in a windstorm and Thomas would still pick it out right away. His recognition of one makes the other voice sound all the more unfamiliar. He can't make out a word they're saying, but it sure as hell sounds like James is being caught in the act.

And  _fuck_ , this is exactly what he was afraid of, bringing feelings into this. That one of them would get caught and everything would go downhill from there.

The unfamiliar voice is getting progressively louder. "Who's helping you?" 

 _You know the right thing to say here,_ Thomas thinks, trying to beam his thoughts to James. Their brains seem connected at all other times. Thomas is praying their connection maintains itself here, when he needs it most.

_C'mon, James. Do the smart thing. Turn me in and we'll both take half the fall and it'll be fine. Or turn me in and we'll collaborate on our stories and blame Aaron for the whole thing. I can bail us both out of wherever they put us. Just tell him you have a partner. Tell him your partner's one floor down._

_Goddammit, James, just tell him I'm helping you._

"No one," he hears James's voice say, loud and clear. "I'm here alone."

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is what I meant by "everything going downhill."
> 
> Comments are forever appreciated!


	15. "Metamorphosis of Narcissus" - Salvador Dali

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's full of burnt tones, umbers and yellows. Except, of course, for that tiny, delicate white flower.  
> Like any Dali, it leaves you with the impression that all its secrets are unlockable with the right key.

At this point, he's not sure what else he can do. He puts his heart and soul into this museum. He comes early, stays late, works hard. He's organized every event here since he was first hired, and he considers the staff of the museum - and, to some weird extent, the art - to be his extended family.

And tonight, George Washington takes an evening stroll around his museum after closing, and there's a guy trying to steal a painting.

He's hardly sure what to say or do. Someone must be helping this guy, because the one he's trying to steal - "For An Anniversary" - is damn large.

But when the kid says he's working alone, that almost makes more sense. He seems quiet. He's not trying for a confrontation with George. In fact, his body language is all him shrinking away, trying to be small and unassuming. When he tells George he's working alone, there's a look in his eyes.

_Desperate._

George Washington is torn immediately. This kid is trying to steal from his museum. But he's already gone from "this guy" to "this kid" in George's head. _He's not a kid, George, he must be in his late twenties, at the very least._

But he's the kid, because he's never known quite how to deal with desperate.

"The string of art thefts," he says helplessly, struggling between anger and his basal desire to help. "Was that all just you?"

The kid tilts his head back and forth, neither a yes nor a no. "No," he murmurs. "This one, though. I... I had no other choice."

 

In fairness, none of the other art thefts were "just him."

James knows he's no good at casing a situation, not like Thomas. He can't look at someone's face and figure out who they are, what they like, and the fastest way to their buttons. Thomas told him about the buttons one time. James still doesn't fully understand the concept, but he thinks he may have just found his first button.

"What do you mean, son?" asks the man in the suit.

James casts his eyes downward, doing what he does best and making himself small. It's not even lying, body-language-wise. He's dying to shrink right down to floor level at the moment. He settles for the next best thing and mumbles.

"Y'know. Starving artist. I barely got an apartment anymore."

Also technically a half-lie, at most. The majority of his life is spent at Thomas's apartment, not his own.

The man in the suit nods sympathetically. James thinks this has got to be a button. He thinks he gets what buttons are.

The man in the suit says, "Crime isn't the solution, son. You know how hard I work to make a living at this museum?"

"Uh. Pretty hard?"

The man snorts. "Pretty hard. And to steal a painting... no matter what sort of dire straits you're in... there are always other ways, son."

"Are there?" he asks, still not looking up. James is afraid that, if he looks up, this whole illusion will shatter and he'll be wasting away in a cell somewhere, awaiting trial for lots and lots of robbery. But for now, the guy in the suit is still here, still sounding awkward and unsure of what to do.

"There always are," he repeats. "Look, son, I'm going to escort you out of this museum and you're going to tell me what's so bad in your life that you've resorted to stealing a painting. I'm ordering a whole new security system tomorrow. I swear, though, if I ever catch you laying a finger on my artwork again, the police will be here before you can blink. You understand me, son?"

"Crystal," James says. "This means you're... not calling the police?"

" _Yet_ ," the man retorts. "So why do you not have an apartment?"

"I... it's weird. I've more or less moved in with a guy I know, but I can't stay there twenty-four seven, and... well, I paint, and it's hardly the kind of career that you can live off of unless you're good. And I'm..."

The man in the suit smiles sympathetically. They're getting to the lower levels now, and James is hoping and praying that Thomas had the good sense to leave already. He doesn't see him anywhere. James tries to communicate with him via telepathy.

_You'd better be home safe and not telling anybody about this, Thomas. Someone's gotta take care of Vincent._

"I tried my hand at painting, once," the man says. "I might have an eye for great art, but it just won't come out through my hands."

James nods. "Is there a word for writer's block for a painter?"

"Art block?"

James hums in agreement. 

"So painting's not working out?" the man prompts.

"No, it's not. At least, not how I hoped. But I have to get by somehow. I've got no steady job, a lot of people I know in the art world, I know my way around security systems... you have to understand, sir, I didn't see any other way. Hell, I have a dog to take care of now-"

The man raises his eyebrows. "A dog, hm?"

"Yep. He's a little mutt. Puppy, still. He's only got one ear."

"What's his name?"

"Vincent."

The man chuckles. "Appropriate choice."

They stand and talk outside of the Guggenheim. James learns this man's name - George Washington. He learns that they have a mutual acquaintance - Hercules Mulligan, who works part-time security guarding the museum. He learns how much this man loves art.

George Washington has such an aggressively fatherly vibe about him that James can't help but feel comfortable around him. Even if he could still call the police at any moment.

Most important, he learns that Washington loves art like he loves art. Or perhaps it would be better phrased as him loving art like Washington loves art. They love it in the same way. James tells him about an evening visit to a museum, about seeing "Starry Night" everywhere and feeling that same tightness you get in your chest when you're in love. He omits the part that he was in the museum after hours to steal something.

This, he thinks, is the part that gets him home free. George Washington hands him a card and says, "Give me a call when it's not so late."

"Why?"

"Because I can still call the police. Good night, son."

James stumbles in to Thomas's apartment at around one in the morning to find his boyfriend frantically pacing around the room, tugging his fingers through his hair. Vincent is following him, wagging his tail and tossing his head, looking just as agitated as Thomas.

"Honey, I'm home," James calls quietly.

Thomas's whole body tenses for a moment in surprise. As he relaxes, he closes the distance to James in two huge strides, pulls him towards his chest, and hugs him so hard that James thinks he might stop breathing.

"I didn't know what he'd do to you," he mutters into James's hair. "Whether you'd come home at all, or I'd get a call and it'd be you telling me I was your one phone call in jail. Shit, James, I've never been caught before. I didn't know what to do."

"To be fair, you weren't caught."

Thomas pulls out of the hug, but holds James at arm's length by the shoulders. "I should have! What kind of move was that, Mads, telling him you were all alone? We could have both taken the fall! I could have lied our way out, easy. Are you... is there a trial date or something? Shit, Mads, are you going to jail after all? Why didn't you just tell him about-"

James holds up a hand, and Thomas falls silent immediately. "No jail," he says. "Not yet. I think he likes me. I have his business card now."

"You what."

He pulls the card from his pocket. "I have his business card."

"Dude. What the fuck. What in the actual hell did you say to him?

James shrugs. "I told him the truth. Sort of."

 

Not knowing what to feel, Thomas oscillates between relief and panic and confusion and pride. James is here, in front of him, with no police yet. Key word being yet - there might be police later. But there might not be, because nothing makes sense anymore. Which is because James - quiet, shy, logical James - talked himself out of a bad situation.

It strikes Thomas that, for what may be the first time, he's gone several hours without worrying once about his own self-interest. Who cares if he's arrested?

James is okay.

"So," he says, trying for a smile, "you gonna call him?"

"I don't think I have a choice. But he seems nice enough. We talked about art."

"Of course."

"He loves it like we love it, Thomas. Which, I think, is why I'm here and not... anywhere else. We all stick together in this business."

Thomas raises an eyebrow. "What did you two talk about, exactly?"

"Quite a lot of things. 'Starry Night' came up. So did 'Metamorphosis of Narcissus' and 'Flaming June' and a bunch of others."

Thomas grins, this time not having to force it. "'Metamorphosis of Narcissus' feels awfully appropriate right now, don't you think?"

He's only seen the painting once in real life. It's full of burnt tones, umbers and yellows. Except, of course, for that tiny, delicate white flower. Like any Dali, it's confusing and surreal. There's more to it than you can ever absorb at first glance, but it leaves you with the impression that all its secrets are unlockable with the right key.

"I think so," James agrees. "We should sleep, Thomas. It's early, and we're stressing Vincent out."

Vincent, as if in agreement, yips twice.

"Alright, alright. My god, James, tomorrow you're telling me everything you said to him. Don't pretend like you don't remember, Mr. Photographic Memory. I gotta know all the details, my man."

"Tomorrow."

"Yeah. Right. Tomorrow. C'mon, let's get to bed. I swear, man, I'm never letting you out of my sight again. I practically gave myself a heart attack worrying about you."

When Thomas climbs into bed with James, each of them on their respective side, he's not shy about cuddling right up. James might not take him seriously, but Thomas isn't lying about never wanting to let James out of his sight. His head is racing with how wrong the night went, how much worse it could have gone. It feels like a goddamn miracle that James is beside him in this bed, warm and alive and breathing in that calm way that can only mean sleep.

Everything is confusing right now, and Thomas isn't sure which side of "Metamorphosis of Narcissus" they're on. At this point, he's not even sure what side he wants to be on.

 

"I take it this isn't a date?" John Laurens says with a grin.

"You know me so well," Alexander Hamilton agrees. "You remember George Washington, right?"

"Your dad?"

"Right, exactly. So I get a text from him at, like, eleven last night-"

"So, early for you."

"-and it just says something about him possibly having caught the thief. Like,  _the_ thief. So I'm dying for an update, right? I text him like twenty times, no response, no response, no response. I'm practically dead on the floor from waiting."

"And?" John asks, raising his eyebrows.

"And he didn't. Some misguided kid just trying to get back on his feet, according to Wash."

"Did he turn him in to the police?"

Alexander snorts. "Thought you said you remembered Wash. Poor, misguided kids trying to get back on their feet are his ultimate weakness."

"That why he likes you so much?"

"Shut up, John, I'm on my feet. Fifty bucks on him offering the guy a job and whatever the hell else he needs. I'm glad Wash gets to help, but it's so disappointing coming  _this close_ to figuring out who's stealing all this shit and it just being... well, whoever."

John nods solemnly. "Is art theft always your introductory topic to get people to fall in love with you?"

Alex wiggles his eyebrows. "Is it working?"

 

James wakes up to the feeling of a dog licking his face. He rolls over, burying his face in the pillow away from Vincent. He didn't even know the dog could get up on the bed, but here they are.

He recalls last night with perfect clarity, of course, but his memories have an added color now. From the safety and warmth of Thomas's bedroom, they feel further away. In his head, they're done up in burnt tones, umbers and yellows like a fading sepia photograph. James thinks about "Metamorphosis of Narcissus" and wonders whether he's the flower or the man at this point. He wonders what each side means.

Vincent is still licking his face.

Thomas has his arms so tightly around him that James has a tough time maneuvering away from Vincent's good morning kisses. In fact, the maneuvering is so difficult that his tosses and turns wake Thomas up, too. Vincent shifts his attention over to Thomas, who sputters into the dog tongue as he wakes up.

"Morning," James says through a yawn.

"It sure is," Thomas says, unwinding his arms in favor of a kiss pressed to James's cheek. "You think that guy's gonna call the cops on you today?"

James shrugs. "Not if I call him first. I hope. His name is George, by the way. George Washington."

Thomas blinks, jaw dropping. He quickly closes his mouth when Vincent aims a lick right at his lips. "Mads, you got busted by the director of the Guggenheim."

"Oh, shit." He knows he knows the name. He didn't even consider it last night. "So what's about to happen to me is probably either really great or really terrible. That's... wow. Yep. This is gonna happen."

"Hey." Thomas lays a hand on James's. "Whatever happens. It'll be okay, Mads, you know that. We'll get through it together, because that's what we always do. Except, of course, when you tell George Washington that there's no one helping you. Honestly, I'm almost offended."

"I wasn't about to rat you out, and I'm not gonna apologize for that," James says, sounding almost defiant.

Thomas kisses his temple and grins.

"So I should call him," James says.

"Yep."

He doesn't move. He doesn't want to get out of this bed and feel himself changing yet. He's not ready for Metamorphosis.

"Man," Thomas groans. "How much fun do you think Aaron's having on the Girl Scout trip?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So what exactly does Washington want? Only time will tell.
> 
> Thanks so much to everybody who's talked to me about the story so far! (I still can't believe someone made an aesthetic post for this story.)


	16. "The Dream" - Henri Rousseau

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He sees those deep greens and flashes of robin's-egg blue. He sees the rounded eyes of waiting tawny lions.  
> For the first time in his life, Thomas is not just on the fancy couch, dreaming from the comfort of Paris.

"So I've deduced that you're not going to arrest me," James says into the phone.

He wouldn't say it if he wasn't totally confident about it. But the more he considers the situation, the surer he gets. He doesn't know what Washington wants, but seeing him behind bars isn't in the realm of possibility.

"How's that?" asks George Washington.

"You haven't done it yet."

"That's a fair point, my boy." He chuckles, and James has to hold the phone away from his ear so the combined loud chuckling and static don't make him go deaf.

Thomas shoots James a quizzical look. "Loud static," James mutters. Thomas nods. He insisted on sitting in during this phone conversation. So he could find out everything at the same time James does, of course. James has reason to suspect it's also because Thomas is worried he'll get arrested if they spend more than thirty seconds in different rooms.

_As if him being in here with me will be a deterrent to the police._

"So, if I'm not going to arrest you..." Washington prompts. James shoves the phone back to his ear.

"I'm afraid, sir," he says, "I haven't gotten that far yet. Whatever it is, though, I prefer it to arrest."

"In that case, why don't you come by the museum later?" Washington asks. "Dress nicely, please, if you can. If not, don't worry about it. We'll talk."

"Okay," James says. "What time is later?"

"Let's call it two. See you then, my boy."

"Right."

He hangs up the phone. In a second, Thomas is at his side, all raised eyebrows and squeezes on the shoulder. "This is weird," Thomas says. "But whatever happens, you're not getting arrested, so that's good. Why does he want you to go there?"

James shrugs. "You're the people genius."

"Well I know  _that_. Really I'm the everything genius. But I didn't get to hear his side of the conversation, and you're not the most communicative over the phone. So why does he want you to go there?"

"No idea yet. Hang on, if you didn't hear his side, how do you know I'm going over there?"

Thomas winks. "I'm the people genius."

 

George Washington waits in his office. He grapples with his own mind trying to decide if he's doing the right thing. At this point, he knows, it's too late to do any other thing. It's not as if he can call the police and say, "So someone broke into my art museum, but I decided to let them off the hook and now I'm having second thoughts. Also nothing was actually stolen. And it wasn't a forced entry - he just knows how to use our security systems."

 _I'm sure I'd find a better way to phrase it,_ he thinks, but he knows it doesn't matter at this point. This is the course he's chosen.

Now he's just gotta hope James Madison is as smart as he seems.

Kids who've lost their way have long been a weakness of his. For someone without kids of his own, George tends to latch on to anybody who needs his help. He's got a few who are practically part of his family at this point - Alexander Hamilton is a notable one, because when is the kid not notable? - but he's always eager to provide his fatherly assistance to anyone who crosses his path. And James, poor guy, seemed to need it.

Barely has an apartment anymore, living most of his time with somebody else, no reliable source of income. Good guy, smart, knows his way around just about everything, as far as George can tell. Just looking for a leg up.

James shows up in a charcoal-colored suit and a purple tie that  _almost_ fit him, but not quite. He gestures to his outfit.

"My boyfriend's," is the first thing he says.

George nods knowingly. "Nothing ever fits as well as the stolen t-shirts," he agrees. "Suits in particular. Come in, my boy. Take a seat."

He does as he's asked, pulling his chair away from the wall to face George's desk properly. George sits down and laces his fingers together, still trying to convince himself this is a bad decision. It's the only way he won't give this guy everything he needs to get ahead.

"So," George says. "How are you? How's your boyfriend?"

"We're well."

George waits for more, but James doesn't provide it.

 _Shy_ , his mind supplies.  _More so now that he knows he won't be arrested for not talking to me._

"I'm sure you're wondering why you're here," George offers. "How much do you know about the security system?"

"Enough to get in and out," James says. "I'm... quiet. It's easy to figure out how to get in. No one notices me."

"And the paintings?"

James chuckles, but his laugh becomes a shaky cough. George fumbles around for some way to help, but James is already pulling a handkerchief out of his pocket and pressing it to his mouth. Once the coughs subside, he smiles weakly.

"The paintings," James repeats. "I know a lot more about them than I do about the security system. Thomas and I-"

"Thomas?"

"Boyfriend. We've come up with this game where he reads me the Wikipedia article of a painting without mentioning the name of it or its artist and I guess what the painting is. My record is seven seconds." He ducks his head after this pronouncement, as though he's said too much.

George nods. "So if, for example, our museum wanted to borrow something from MoMA, what would you suggest and why?"

James pauses to consider for a moment. He snorts, quietly, as if at his own private joke, but then collects himself. "'The Dream.' Henri Rousseau."

"Oh? Why?"

"It's interesting, first of all. Not surrealism, of course, but more so than many of his other famous works. Despite not being of a piece, so to speak, with many of the works at the Guggenheim, its size and its use of color, particularly deep greens and yellows, mean it won't look out of place. Besides, it was Rousseau's last completed painting before his death. A conversation piece on top of its obvious aesthetic beauty."

James breathes out, short, wearing his "I said too much" look again. George smiles.

"Impressive."

"In fairness, sir," James mumbles, "I am trying to impress you."

"Well, my boy, I'd say it's working. And if we were to need someone to, say, work with other museums to borrow from, travel with, and add to our collection, would that someone steal our paintings?"

"I should hope not," James says.

George leans forward.  _I suppose, whether it's a good idea or not, this is my idea._

"I'll rephrase," he says. "Were that person to be you, would you steal our paintings?"

James looks pensive for a moment, as though he's determining his answer. Maybe not a good sign. But then he says, "Of course not. I'd get to touch them."

George is confused, but he nods. "In that case, my boy, we've been looking for someone like you. Care to join the team?"

"Just like that?"

"Well, no, not  _just_ like that," George admits. "There will be paperwork for me, and then paperwork for you. But within a week and a half, I'd say, you'll have the job if you want it."

"Why do you trust me?" James asks. Interestingly, there's no accusatory tone behind it. It seems to come from plain curiosity.

George shakes his head. "I don't know. But I do."

 

"I don't think I've ever showed off like that before," James admits with a sigh, lying back on Thomas's couch like he's at therapy.

Thomas pets at James's head and nods sympathetically. "Tell me more, man," he says. "Which one did you pick?"

"I went for 'The Dream.'"

"Why's that?"

James sits up. "Do you want to know what I told George Washington or why I really picked it?"

"Is that even a question? The real story. Because you showing off means you just said some shit about history and trivia and continuity with the current collection at the museum. All true, I'm sure, but not the whole story."

He nods. "I figured. I picked it because it's the first piece at MoMA that popped into my head that  _wasn't_ 'The Hat Makes The Man,' because if I had said that one, things would have gone much less well for me."

Thomas holds his laughter in for half a second before letting it break loose, shifting himself fully onto the couch next to James and leaning against him as he giggles. "Yeah," he breathes, still clutching his sides. "That... smart move, man. I can only imagine what might've happened if-"

"By the way," James says, affecting a posh-sounding voice. "Yeah, Mr. Washington? The collage I told you to borrow is a fake. I know because I made it. Nice working for you!"

Thomas's laughter keeps hitting him in waves, and he gives James a good-natured nudge in the side for being so funny.

When he thinks about 'The Dream,' though, it's a fabulous choice. For reasons besides those James has listed, too. It's hard for Thomas to shake the feeling that their lives are changing - for better or for worse, he's not sure, but he can't wait to find out. For the first time in his life, he can see the jungle around him. He sees those deep greens and flashes of robin's-egg blue. He sees the rounded eyes of waiting tawny lions.

For the first time in his life, Thomas is not just on the fancy couch, dreaming from the comfort of Paris. He feels like he could sit up and step away, shaking his hair from his face and becoming a part of this beautiful, wild, green jungle.

"Hey Thomas?" James murmurs.

Thomas's shoulders are still shaking with his laughs, but he forces himself under control. "Yeah?"

"If I'm going to become a respectable member of society and, you know, not steal things..." He trails off, seemingly trying for implied meaning. Thomas doesn't know exactly how the words are going in James's head, but he gets the gist.

_What will you do? Do we have to return everything we've stolen? How will this change our relationship? Will we still have a relationship?_

Thomas nods. "I've been wanting to mention this. I almost did, before 'The Anniversary,' but, ah, you know how that turned out."

"Mention what?"

He gestures all around them. In his sweeping hand motion, Thomas indicates a lot of things. The couch. The sticky note on the TV with the important channel numbers listed. Vincent's food and water bowls. The kitchen island, beautiful countertop getting a little worn now from all the use it's gotten recently. A reusable grocery bag with seasonal fruits spilling out over the top. One of James's paintings on the wall.

"All this," Thomas says. "And maybe...  _just_ doing this. Not that I don't love a grandiose lifestyle - and I  _will_ kick you out if you try to make me stop throwing parties, you know how I love being the center of attention - but, like, just doing this. No more heists, especially not with your new job. I'll do something else fun. Maybe go into TV. Ooh, or politics."

"Anything in the spotlight?" James asks dryly.

"Well, yeah, duh. And we can spend our nights here, in bed, instead of sneaking into museums. Hell, we can return all the stuff we stole if you want, or we can just hang onto it, not like anyone's gonna turn us in. Just, y'know, settle down a little."

Thomas's voice cracks.

"I've always wondered what it'd be like to settle down," he murmurs.

For just a fleeting fraction of a second, for too short a timespan to be noteworthy, for no time at all, really, Thomas is nervous. He knows James loves the paintings, loves the heists, just as much as he does, if not even more. He can see it in James's face every time they first touch something that's been under glass for years. Thomas might have just fucked everything up in one go.

But that no-time-at-all doesn't last, because James is giving him a slow nod. "I get to touch the paintings at my new job," he says. "But-"

Thomas can feel his heart stop again, at least until James smiles.

"One last time, for old times' sake?" James asks.

"Of course," Thomas agrees. "From where?"

"Not the Guggenheim," James says.

This time, neither of them can stop laughing.

 

The more they talk about it, James is coming to realize, the less any one painting seems perfect. They even discussed taking 'The Dream,' but decided they've learned their lesson from trying for 'For An Anniversary.' Nothing huge.

They're running out of time. Washington informed James yesterday that he starts on Monday. They have three days.

Laying in bed on Friday night, Thomas's head on his chest, just seconds away from falling asleep, it occurs to James. He's been playing through their conversations in his head, because remembering Thomas's words always helps him relax. Something hits him.

_Hell, we can return all the stuff we stole if you want._

"Thomas," James murmurs. "We're not stealing anything else."

"No?"

"You remember those paintings by Eliza Schuyler? That exhibition is still up at the little art gallery, yes?"

He lifts his head from James's chest. "Mm-hm..."

"Why don't we sneak them back in?"

The bedroom is too dark to see anything but a hazy outline of Thomas's form. But James can feel the moment the atmosphere shifts, and he knows Thomas's eyes have lit up like the Fourth of July.

"Perfect," Thomas whispers, following it up with a kiss to James's jaw. "Tomorrow night?"

"Tomorrow night."

 _It's almost comically easy_ , James thinks on Saturday night.  _Though it is strange having things all ready to go in Thomas's bag instead of walking in empty-handed._

The code is different this time. They figured it out easily this afternoon. They slip through the door to the main office of the gallery, punching the buttons required to turn the cameras off for the moment. There are still two blank spaces on the walls where Eliza Schuyler's paintings used to be, their little placards still describing nothing at all.

James holds a hand out, waiting for Thomas to retrieve the paintings.

Despite all the great works he's seen in the past months, all the history he's touched and every brushstroke he's copied, these paintings still awe him. James remembers why he first had to have them. They speak to him, as all great art should do.

He hangs them delicately back on the walls. When he turns around, Thomas is on his phone.

"What're you doing?" James hisses.

"Texting Eliza Schuyler," Thomas replies. "I'm inviting her and her sisters to a party tomorrow."

"Short notice," James comments, turning his eyes back to the paintings for the moment.

"No notice is too short for me," Thomas boasts. "Besides, it's the least I can do for stealing her painting."

"Ooh, could you invite Van Gogh, too?" James asks.

"Sure!" Thomas agrees. "I'll invite Van  _Goff_."

"Shh. I need to look for awhile."

And while he's really just saying it to shut Thomas up, James does want to look. He lets the paintings wash over him and feels a little bit like he's in the middle of the jungle, a little bit like he's in the middle of a dream.

They stay longer in Icarus Art than they have in any museum.

"Hey," Thomas whispers after many, many minutes.

"Hey?" James whispers back.

"Hey."

"Hey."

"I love you," Thomas whispers, stepping close and wrapping an arm around James's waist. "A whole fucking lot."

"I love you too."

They're still staring at the painting, both of them, but for a moment James closes his eyes. He lets the image of the painting remain in his mind's eye. He's fucking terrified of the future. A lot of things scare him. This is no exception. He's got a real job. Suddenly he and Thomas might be getting domestic. There'll be parties and Thomas will hog the spotlight, yes, but what else? Everything is uncertain. He has no facts to go on.

 _But,_ James reminds himself,  _I like 'almost' now._

The steady warmth of Thomas's arm around him reminds James that this is not a dream.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Took me awhile, but I finally got this one out! And fair warning: this series will be ending in another two or three chapters. It's been one hell of a ride.
> 
> Comments make me so happy!


	17. "Untitled (Vase of Flowers)" - Georgia O'Keefe

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's full of orange and cream and green. It's a spring bloom and a summer day wrapped up in autumn colors.  
> Whatever else it may be, it's a hopeful painting. It's happy.

Taking a sip of her champagne, Eliza Schuyler says, "And it was the strangest thing! Angelica calls me this morning and tells me to turn on the news, and they're just... back! Maybe this means someone will finally buy them now."

The joke earns her a round of titters. She's feeling comfy here. It's much smaller than Thomas Jefferson's parties usually are, small enough that she knows every face in the room. Most of the names, too.

Angelica appears by her side, leaning an elbow on her shoulder. "Hey sis."

"Hey," Eliza says, tilting her head so Angelica can kiss her on the cheek. "I was just telling everyone about the paintings."

"Ha! Strangest thing, isn't it?"

"That's what I said!"

Peggy rolls her eyes. "Probably whoever stole them got a guilty conscience and returned them. Isn't that the story they're going with?"

"You say that like you don't believe it, Peg," Angelica says.

"I kinda don't," Peggy retorts. "First of all, if you feel bad about breaking into an art gallery to steal a painting, the solution isn't breaking  _back_ into the art gallery. That's just double the guilt. Then again, not like I have a better theory."

Eliza becomes aware that they're the only voices at the party. "Why're you all so quiet?" she asks, taking another sip of her champagne to alleviate some of the awkwardness.

"Just marveling," Alexander Hamilton says with a grin.

"You three are awfully marvelous," Aaron Burr adds.

"Thanks, Aaron," Eliza says. "That's kind of you."

"Yeah," Angelica says with a cackle. "This coming from the guy who once told me my perfume smelled like-"

"Okay, okay!" Aaron holds up his hands. "We are  _not_ going into that story right now."

"Oh, why not? I seem to recall-"

"I was young and stupid, Angelica-"

"This was like six months ago, Aaron-"

Eliza watches as the party slips back into a rhythm of flowing, interlocking conversations. She smiles to herself. And here's Hamilton, flirting with her and John Laurens in the same breath. There's Hercules and Lafayette, desperately trying to pretend they're not a couple. There's Angelica and Aaron, of course, grappling for control of the conversation. And Peggy watching the whole thing, shooting glances at Eliza like they're on _The Office_ and Eliza's the camera. There's Dolley, to whom Eliza was just introduced tonight. For a recent divorcee, she's remarkably chipper, hanging on James Madison's arm and laughing at what must be one of Jefferson's jokes.

And, of course, Thomas and James themselves. While she wouldn't describe either of them as a belle of the ball, per se - not that Thomas isn't trying - it's clear how much of this is them. Not just the party. The art on the walls (which has always looked familiar to Eliza, but she's decided not to bring it up). The food spread out on the counter. The little one-eared dog bouncing around their feet.

 _What a party,_ she thinks.

Angelica wins control of the conversation. Though she's already heard this story - she was there when it happened - Eliza tunes in anyway.

She takes a sip of her champagne and smiles.

 

It's not like James to enjoy a party this much. But, watching him interact with the guests, Thomas can tell James is having fun. Maybe it's having Dolley at his side - he imagines that would give anybody a boost. Maybe it's that this one's so much smaller than usual. If Thomas is honest with himself, he doesn't care.

James is having fun. He's having fun. Everyone's having fun.

Does anything else matter?

Once all the snacks are eaten and much of the alcohol is drunk - and the guests are too, for that matter - it becomes clear that this will not sustain itself like many of Thomas's other parties. The critical ratio of people to possible conversation groups is just too low. Thomas knows he'll have to intervene one way or another before things end up sucking, either shut it down early (which he perhaps should do, given that James has work in the morning), or act fast to revitalize it.

"Thomas," James says as Dolley goes off to put everybody's champagne flutes in the dishwasher.

"Hm?"

"Do you, by any chance, own Pictionary?"

"No, but I'm sure there's stuff on the Internet, like a random Pictionary word generator or something. Why?"

James smiles.

Under ten minutes later, Thomas is watching Hamilton frantically scribble at a gigantic piece of paper. "Dog! Leash! Collar! Walk? Alexander, seriously, you're killing me-"

On the other side of the paper, Lafayette is scribbling at his own drawing. James shouts, "Stadium!" and Laf whoops.

Hamilton caps her marker. "It was 'owner,' genius."

"Can I switch with you, Laf?" Thomas pleads. "My partner doesn't know how to draw."

"Hey, man, just because you don't-"

"That puts James and Lafayette at six," Aaron says with an amused shadow of a smile on his face. "Just a reminder, they've won every round so far."

"Yeah, rub it in," Thomas says, looking askance at Hamilton when he says the same thing at the same time.

"Honestly, it's unnatural," Dolley points out. She's been partnered with John Laurens, and they seem to be getting along just fine. As though anybody could stop themselves from getting along with Dolley.

"We're just having fun!" Peggy pipes up, poking Eliza in the side. Eliza nods to confirm.

"Yeah, well," Hercules says, taking his marker from Angelica. "Angelica and I came here to win, and we're really not amused by your shenanigans."

As the next round begins and James and Lafayette win - again - it strikes Thomas that he's never had this much fun at one of his parties. After three more unsuccessful rounds for everybody except James and Laf, Thomas convinces everybody to switch up the teams.

He ends up with James, mostly because he ran over there as soon as he could, grabbed James by the arm, and declared them partners.

"Subtle of you, Thomas," James says with a smile.

"Mm-hm, subtle is my middle name." He pulls James in for a kiss, but James stops him with a hand to his chest.

"Hey, hands off the precious work of art."

"Thought we moved past the awkward no-touching stage."

James chuckles and kisses him anyway. "Yes, we did."

The round begins. James gets his randomly generated word on his phone and springs into action at once. Thomas is expecting beauty. He knows what James can do, even with nothing but a marker in his hand. He's somewhere between confused and miffed when James draws nothing but an arrow.

"Arrow? Point? Direction?"

James stands next to the pad so the arrow points directly at himself. He caps his marker. All the others are still drawing in a frenzy.

"James? No way your word is James. Shit, man, what do you-"

Thomas cuts himself off as he realizes.

"Art!"

James punches the air in victory. "He got it."

They play a total of sixteen more rounds, though they change teams once more. Whatever team James is on wins every time. There are joking accusations of cheating. Thomas gets stuck with Hamilton again and practically comes to blows over Hamilton's  _awful_ drawing of "rap battle."

Thomas glows on the inside.

_James called himself art. He meant it. He gets it._

_He got it._

 

When the party wraps up around midnight - early for a Thomas Jefferson party - James is bone tired but a little buzzy. He's had no alcohol tonight. It's more that weird feeling when you get on the roller coaster for the first time, and when you get off your legs are a little shaky but you're dying to go again.

"That was fun," he says as he helps Thomas out of his (attractive) button-down.

"Really?" Thomas says with a raised eyebrow. "Thought you didn't like parties."

"That wasn't a party."

"Yes it was."

James nods. "Okay, it was, but it wasn't bad. We played Pictionary."

Thomas snorts. "You only liked it because you won at Pictionary."

"So sue me."

As they collapse into bed, James pictures what it'll be like at the museum tomorrow. He'll be the new guy, something he hasn't been in a long time. Being the new guy is always an uncomfortable position. He'll know nobody except George Washington. He'll be interacting with people he's never met. He'll probably tell the same joke like four times, because he always does that. He's not even quite sure what he'll be  _doing_ at the Guggenheim. Explaining art? Borrowing art? 

"I can hear you worrying," Thomas complains.

"I haven't even said anything."

"I know. You're worrying. New jobs are scary, my man. But look at it this way: you tried to steal one of his paintings and Washington hires you. There's essentially no way to fuck this up, Mads."

"I could accidentally kill someone in his museum."

"And based on the current pattern, he'd promote you."

James huffs out a laugh. Thomas continues.

"Look, Mads, I wanna help. I can't. This is something you gotta do, and then you'll come home and tell me all about it while you cook dinner. And Vincent'll be bothering us for scraps, and you'll yell at me if I try to feed him off my plate. And we'll go to bed or, y'know,  _not_." He nudges James in the side, and James smiles. "Point is, man, you'll get through. And then on Tuesday it'll be the best job in the world."

"I'm sorry, did you just admit there's something you can't do?"

Thomas laughs. "Shut up, Mads."

"No, no, really, I must have misheard."

"Go to sleep."

"I love you, Thomas."

"Love you too, Mads."

It takes awhile for James to get to sleep. He hears Thomas's breathing even out next to him, something unusual for them. Thomas is never asleep before he is. Must be tuckered out from all the Pictionary.

The room is dark, but when James closes his eyes and tries to sleep, it feels brighter. In trying to categorize how he feels right now, he comes up with Georgia O'Keefe. He runs through flowers in his head until he lands on the right one. "Untitled (Vase of Flowers)" is full of orange and cream and green. It's a spring bloom and a summer day wrapped up in autumn colors. Whatever else it may be, it's a hopeful painting. It's happy.

James pictures the O'Keefe and drifts off easily.

When Thomas sees him off the next morning, he's boasting and smiling even more than usual. James, who reminds himself that he knows nothing about people, can't help but wonder if Thomas is nervous, too.

 

 

"Alright, so this might be a date," Alexander Hamilton says.

The people he's brought with him - Aaron Burr and Eliza Schuyler and John Laurens - give him confused looks. "Ham," John says, "there are four of us."

"Right, which is why I'm bringing you all to the movies so it's not weird."

"It's a little weird," Aaron says.

"Agreed," Eliza says.

Alexander's face lights up. "Look at that! We all have something we can agree on. C'mon. Movie's starting in twenty minutes. I hope someone likes their popcorn extra salty, because that's the only way I'll eat it."

The three people with him smirk all at once. Alex is confused. "What, did I say something?"

"Your popcorn order is unsurprising," Aaron points out.

" _You're_ extra salty," John says.

They sit in a line during the movie. Alexander has Eliza Schuyler on one side of him and Aaron Burr on the other. He puts an arm around Eliza's shoulders to hold hands with John Laurens, who's sitting on her other side. They're watching some action-comedy thing, just enough explosions and witty dialogue to keep everybody happy. The theater shushes Eliza more than once for her uproarious giggles, and by the flickering light of the screen, Alex swears he sees Aaron smile.

As it turns out, they all like their popcorn extra salty, too.

Alexander Hamilton enjoys his date immensely. And, though some of them are harder to judge than others, so do his dates.

 

George Washington hasn't told anybody who works here that he met James Madison trying to steal a painting, and he isn't planning on it. Better to let them think he met this man somewhere (and sometime) respectable, hired him out of respect for his abilities. It's only a half-lie, which is often the only kind George is comfortable telling. He has such a tough time lying to his employees.

He paces his office waiting for the day to start. Despite the reputation he's managed to cultivate as a calm, levelheaded man, he's always been a little impatient and a lot willing to jump in on the action. He can't wait to see how James Madison does on his first day.

George leads a couple of tours, just for the hell of it.

He isn't in his office when his newest recruit to the museum arrives. He's waiting by the front doors.

"Good to see you, son," George says when James arrives.

"You too," James says.

"Ready to get to work?"

Every time they've seen each other in person, there's been something small about James Madison. He's a big guy, but he makes himself little by some trick of posture or intonation or just plain personality. Now, he straightens himself up, and George Washington sees something like pride swelling in his chest.

"Absolutely."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next chapter will be the last! Thanks so much for all your support on this story. And please, don't be afraid to comment! I flipping love feedback.


	18. "Mountains at Saint-Remy" - Vincent Van Gogh

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 'Mountains at Saint-Remy' has a rich landscape full of blues and yellows and greens.
> 
> When James dreams, he dreams in blue and yellow and green.

He's finishing with the closing-up of the museum when he hears a noise near the front. Not one of the normal evening noises the Guggenheim and its surrounding patch of city tend to make, but a new noise.

James flashes back, for a moment, to an evening over a year ago, in this museum at night. But the noise that time was George Washington, and the noise this time is a grinning Thomas Jefferson. James lets him in and realizes he isn't even breaking the law.

"What're you doing here?" he asks.

"What, is it a crime to come visit my boyfriend at the museum?"

Raising his eyebrows, James says, "Given our past track record, yes."

Thomas shakes his head. "Well then. If loving you's a crime, they should have arrested me ages ago," he declares with a dramatic flourish of his hand. "C'mon, Mads. Let's get you home. I'm sleepy."

"Alright, alright. Just let me say goodnight to Washington and Calder, and I'll re-arm the security system, and we can go."

"Calder?"

"'Red Lily Pads' has really grown on me since I got the job," James admits. "I'll be two minutes, maximum. Make yourself at home and don't steal anything."

"You know I don't do that anymore."

"Thomas, you came home last week with something I know for a fact is supposed to be at the Met."

He doesn't say anything in response to that, but Thomas does wander further into the museum with a smug little grin on his face. James leans up to kiss him on the temple before slipping off to finish up for the night.

Washington bids him a fond goodnight. James thinks Washington has grown to like him over the past months just as he's grown to appreciate Calder. More than once, James has found himself at a dinner table with Lafayette and Alexander Hamilton and John Laurens and George Washington, and though they started a little awkward, he's never had a bad dinner with Washington's family. A family that, James supposes, he's a real part of now.

On one particular occasion, James told a joke that he was sure he told before, but he made Washington laugh so hard he nearly choked on his turkey breast and Lafayette had to pat him on the back until he regained the use of his lungs. That sent James into a nervous coughing fit, which made Alexander laugh until he couldn't breathe and started coughing, and John and Lafayette were left confused as the majority of the diners seemed to share one long coughing fit. James remembers that one fondly.

When he told the story at one of Thomas's parties, Peggy Schuyler laughed until she coughed.

He finds Thomas waiting by 'Red Lily Pads,' staring at the mobile with something akin to wonder on his face. James clears his throat to indicate his presence, and Thomas gives a surprised squeak. He recovers himself after a few seconds.

"You ready to go, man?" he asks.

"Sure am," James says. "Did you walk here?"

"Mm-hm."

"Long walk."

"Well, it's nice out - almost fall now, you know. Autumn is exactly three days from today. Besides, I figured you'd love being on your feet after having been on your feet all day. Just the kind of considerate boyfriend I am."

James grins and nods. "You always know just what I want."

Because the funny thing is, he's actually spent the better part of the day sitting down, negotiating with a few friends from the Isabella Stewart Gardner for a tour of one of their collections. Right now, nothing sounds better than a long walk home in the brisk, not-quite-chilly air. If he didn't know better (and he's not quite sure he does), he'd swear Thomas Jefferson is a mind-reader.

As soon as they step outside together, hand-in-hand, James is hit with a blast of cold. "Shit, man, you said it was nice out."

Thomas shivers. "It was, like, ten minutes ago. You wouldn't happen to have gloves on you?"

"Nope."

He shrugs, sticking his hands in his pockets. His left hand is still interlaced with James's right, so James's hand ends up in the pocket of Thomas's coat as well. 

"So is 'Red Lily Pads' your new favorite?" Thomas asks. He nestles his chin into the collar of his coat, trying to shield himself against the cold. James uses his free hand to button his own jacket the rest of the way up.

"No, it's not," he says. "I do like it a lot more than I used to, though. My favorites list has expanded to include more than just paintings."

"So what is your favorite?"

James laughs. "A painting."

Thomas's chuckling is carried away on the chilly wind. James marvels at the fact that it's this cold in September. It's always impossible to tell with weather in the Northeast, though. May blizzards and October heat waves are just par for the course. He edges a little closer to Thomas.

"I'll rephrase," Thomas says. " _Which painting_ is your favorite?"

"Right now? It's 'Mountains at Saint-Remy.' Van Gogh, of course. When is it not Van Gogh?"

Thomas nods knowingly. "Why's that?"

James takes a moment to pause in his speech. He's got the words inside his head, he's just trying to arrange them properly. Many of the lights on this block are out - everyone's gone to bed early tonight, which makes sense given that it's Wednesday - but a few lit windows cast slanting golden rectangles onto the cracking sidewalk. An airplane, flying overhead, flashes green and blue on the undersides of its wings. James kicks at a pebble and it skitters out of the light, making a clacking noise on the pavement of the street. When he and Thomas walk through the golden window-light squares, their shadows make the light waver around them, making the shapes far less definite.

He's struck by the feeling, though he doesn't know why, that the sky will be blue tomorrow.

'Mountains at Saint-Remy' has, like many of James's favorites, a rich landscape full of blues and yellows and greens.

"It's New York City on a sunny day," James says. "It's... hm."

His words aren't failing him. They're just reluctant to exit via his vocal cords. Thomas, bless him, seems to understand just fine. He says, "It's a pickup game of soccer in the park in the middle of summer."

James grins, stops their walk to yank Thomas in for a kiss. He tastes like strawberry bubblegum.

"It's that," James says.

Thomas nods. "It's us."

 

They must only be halfway home. Thomas is really starting to question his decision to walk. Spending time with James is a delight no matter the circumstances, but man, it's fucking freezing.

"It's only September," Thomas grumbles. "Hell, it's supposed to be summer, still!"

"To be frank, I'm surprised you can't control the weather," James muses. "That seems like something you'd be able to do."

"Sorry. Charm only works on people."

"True. Worked on me," James says.

"You wanna know something funny, Mads? First time we met I was actually trying  _not_ to be super charming."

"You failed," James says, flatly.

"Just can't help myself. I'm serious, though. I didn't want to scare you away by being too, like, flirty or whatever. You seemed easily intimidated and I really wanted to get you on my side. So, y'know, I did my best to dial it back."

"And, of course, your version of not being too flirty is successfully hiding your feelings from me for months," James points out. "Could have saved a lot of time with that one."

"But, alas, the sitcom miscommunication strikes us all in the end."

"Does this sitcom have a happy ending?" James asks.

Thomas nods. "Abso-fucking-lutely. We can rewrite it if it doesn't." To prove his point, he stops and removes his hands from his pockets. James gives him a funny look until Thomas uses his newly freed hands to grab James around the waist and pull him in for a kiss.

No matter how many times he does it, Thomas knows he'll never get sick of kissing James Madison. James likes to take his time, make sure every little detail is going correctly, but when he kisses much of that melts away. Often he waits for Thomas to set the tone, but sometimes - tonight included - he goes in headfirst. He tugs at a lapel of Thomas's coat and he can't seem to stop smiling into the kiss.

It feels beautiful.

When they finally make it home - much later than Thomas anticipated, given how they keep stopping to kiss each other - Vincent is waiting by the door. No matter how late they get home, he's always waiting by the apartment door to arrive. He's not a puppy any longer, but he's still not a very big dog. He comes up to Thomas's knee. His single ear went from pointy to floppy as he grew, though, and it perks up when they walk in.

Something strikes Thomas. "Shit, did we ever find out whether dogs are actually allowed in this building?"

James chuckles. "I'm not sure if we did."

"Guess we can't shake that lawbreaker attitude. Our illegal dog in our apartment full of illegal art." He gets down on his knees to scratch Vincent behind his ear. "Yeah, who's my favorite little illegal stowaway? You are! You are!"

Vincent wiggles not just his tail, but his whole butt in appreciation.

"So," James says slowly. "Do you think someday we'll get in trouble for all the shit we've done?"

"To be honest? I dunno. But I know we'll never get in any trouble that we can't also get ourselves out of. First of all, heaven knows Washington'll back you up on everything. You're at least his second-favorite son by now. Still gotta surpass that asshole Hamilton, I think."

"And I'm sure Aaron will concoct us a watertight alibi for anything," James adds.

"That too. And between your brain, my dazzling charisma, our combined wealth, and our diverse circle of friends, I'd say we're covered for just about every situation," Thomas concludes. "So yeah, I dunno about getting in trouble, but I sure as hell know about getting out of it. Besides, we can't worry too much about it."

"I worry too much about everything, Thomas," James says.

"I know, Mads. So do I."

"Let's get ready for bed."

"Let's."

 

"Oh, hey," Thomas says as they're shucking layers of clothes. "Is Dolley still on for Pictionary night this Saturday?"

"I think so," James says. "At least, she hasn't told me she's not. Aaron's still coming too, and I'm pretty certain Hercules and Lafayette will be there. Did you check with the Schuyler sisters yet?"

"Yeah. Eliza and Peggy can come, but Angelica's still in London for another week."

James marvels, as he yanks on a pair of pajama pants, the original owner of which might be either he or Thomas, at how truly domestic they've become. They have a game night every other Saturday with their friends. They own a dog, eat breakfast together every morning, and don't steal paintings together anymore - mostly, anyway.

"What even are we?" James asks.

"We're partners," Thomas says without any hesitation, like he knew the question was coming. "We're partners in all senses of the word."

"Guess you're right."

"I always am."

They brush their teeth and wash their faces and climb into bed, each on their own side. Vincent snuggles up near James's head. He's learned to get far away from Thomas's feet - he really does kick in his sleep.

James feels himself drifting off after thirty seconds, maximum, but for some reason he tries to keep his eyes open. He doesn't want to stop looking at Thomas. James likes their curtains (still newish, only about a month old) because they make all the light that comes through the windows a sort of greenish-yellow color. The lights are all on in the building across the street, and Thomas's face is covered with slivers of greenish-yellow. James smiles, feeling slip poking him and fighting it.

"You're so pretty," he mumbles.

Thomas smiles in the mostly-darkness. "Thanks, Mads. You are too."

"I'm more of an elephant, remember? You're the swan."

"Ah," Thomas says, "but we're both 'Mountains at Saint-Remy,' aren't we? It's funny how art works like that."

"You tired?" James asks.

"A little. Not as tired as you are, though. You've been working all day."

"I'm not that tired."

Thomas smiles. "Go to sleep, Mads. Gotta get some good rest. You've got work in the morning, and I've got some commercial or something to shoot."

"That's reasonable," James admits. "I just don't wanna close my eyes just yet. Want to look at you a little while longer."

"When'd you get so sappy?" Thomas teases.

"Funny how art works like that," James says. He tries to put some retort into his voice, but it doesn't work so well. On his other side, Vincent lets out a soft doggy snore. Everything James knows is blue and yellow and green.

"Go to sleep, Mads. I love you. I'll still be here in the morning, you know."

"Love you too, Thomas."

James closes his eyes and smiles to himself.  _Yeah, he will still be here tomorrow morning. And the morning after that, and after that. That's kinda weird, isn't it? Certainly, when I first met him, I could never have foreseen this happening. Can't say I'm not pleased with how it turned out, though. We do balance each other. We balance so well. And even beyond that, we're partners._

_We've never clarified what 'partners' means. Are we friends? Are we in love? Are we committing crimes together?_

_All three, I suppose._

Before he drifts off, James cracks his eyes open one more time to see the slivers of light dancing on Thomas's face. Thomas's eyes are closed. His breath comes slow and deep, and one of his feet jolts, hitting James in the foot. James grins.

"It's still not pronounced 'Van Goff,'" he mumbles, knowing Thomas isn't awake to hear him.

When he dreams, he dreams of 'Mountains at Saint-Remy' in blue and yellow and green.

Morning comes, just like every other morning has done, and it is beautiful. The sky is blue.

 

Funny how art works like that.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's been a pleasure writing this story and hearing all of your feedback!


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